


Stoplights

by 5yenwish (iamacamera)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Love, Humor, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamacamera/pseuds/5yenwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Yamaguchi Tadashi's sexual awakening.  Kindly leave your expectations at the door.</p><p>[[On hiatus.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Safeword is Safeword

“No, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi begs.

“Make it stop,” he pants.

“I can’t take it,” he gasps.

“Fufufu,” he giggles.

It is really, very difficult for him to do push-ups while he is laughing so hard he can’t breathe.  Tsukishima is on fire, slinging $2-words left and right to scorch anyone who has the misfortune of coming too close to him.  He whipped the first and second years into a frenzy this way.  The team was on the verge of rioting when Coach Ukai shouted, ' _Statler and Waldorf!  Play cards until you stop giggling, you annoying little monsters.'_

Playing cards is no fun.  Each suit is assigned a different exercise, designated by the players at the start of each round.  Hearts are always push-ups.  Jokers are always planks.  The number on the card indicates the number of repetitions required.  Up until today, Yamaguchi has never played more than one round.

But, neither of them can stop sniggering for more than one or two minutes at a clip.  He knows because he’s been timing it.  They’re supposed to go five full minutes in tandem without laughing to prove that they have well and truly repented.  It is a common punishment for their team of goofballs.  It is essentially time-out for high schoolers.

At this point he isn’t even sure how long they’ve been failing to complete this task.  Tsukishima is deliberately sabotaging them.  Yamaguchi thinks he may be attempting to set an unbreakable all-time record for longest time spent playing cards.  He cannot for the life of him understand what would possess him to do that.

Kageyama and Hinata wander over during a water break to gape at them.  Yamaguchi can’t exactly blame them.  They must look ridiculous.  Sweat is slipping down his face, dripping on the floor, and sticking his hair to his forehead and his shirt to his back.  Tsukishima is in the exact same sorry state.  He abandoned his sweatshirt two rounds ago and his sport glasses are fogged over around the edges.  His pale cheeks are lit up pink.

Speaking on the downswings of his push-ups Tsukishima manages to snipe, “What-- are you-- looking at,-- _bonobos_?”

 _‘Well played, Tsukki,’_ Yamaguchi thinks and it almost distracts him from the fact that he is trembling all over.  

Kageyama and Hinata had just come out as an item.  It is an open secret that they were caught screwing around in the club room just two weeks prior.

Kageyama looks down at them silently.  Yamaguchi would bet good money nothing Tsukishima can say will prevent Kageyama from enjoying every second of this.

“What’s a bonobo?” Hinata asks Sugawara, with a perplexed tilt of his head.

This is the part of the situation that Yamaguchi finds particularly hilarious.  Sugawara both knows all the words Tsukishima is skillfully throwing over the other boys’ heads and is too polite to refuse his teammates’ inquires.  He keeps telling everyone the definitions.  Sawamura stands off in the opposite corner of the gym, talking to Coach Ukai and eying Sugawara like he wants to shake him, just shake the ever-living hell out of him.  Tsukishima has a gift, managing to find a way to make Sugawara, of all people, insult their teammates for him.

Yamaguchi thinks, not for the first time, that he’s a little nutso for Tsukishima’s, well, everything, but particularly his sense of humor.  He’s had it bad for Tsukishima for a long, long time.  But, recently, it doesn’t hurt like it used to.  He thinks it has something to do with the irreverent jokes they, behind their hands, have begun to whisper to one another about retards and crashes and queers.  He is unsure of the mechanics behind this.  He speculates he may simply be a madman, beyond reason.  Maybe they both are.

“A bonobo is a type of primate known for its promiscuous sexual behavior,” Sugawara replies after a thoughtful pause, with a kind, pained smile that Hinata fails to notice is also sort of condescending.

“Mmm,” Yamaguchi winces, and holds his breath for a moment to stifle his mirth.

It feels like someone has turned up the gravity in the room.  He struggles to push his arms straight through the last push-up of the set.  They keep getting rows of hearts because Tsukishima is shit at shuffling cards, but insists on being the one to have the privilege.

 _‘No laughing, no laughing, no laughing!’_  Yamaguchi coaches himself.   _‘We got this!  Almost there! 30 more seconds.’_

“Bonobos do the do to say hello,” Nishinoya contributes as he walks past, wistfully like he thinks this is the single coolest concept in the world, and is deeply saddened people do not do that too.

Kageyama continues to look down at them silently, though he does finally move to take a sip from his water bottle and tick up an eyebrow at Nishinoya’s comment.

“Bonobo.  Bonobo,” Hinata parrots, like he’s trying to get the word to stick in his mind.

 _‘It won’t,’_ Yamaguchi thinks.  

Then he thinks that was a mean thing to think.  But, when he glances up at Hinata, with the empty-headed, vacant look he gets when his wheels are really turning, he thinks the exact same thing again.  He tries focusing on the clock instead.  

“Bo-no-bo,” Hinata repeats, really feeling the word out in his mouth.

With five seconds left before they reach five minutes, Yamaguchi loses it.  Tsukishima doesn’t even bother to tell him to shut up.  Instead he silently flips another card, finds a joker and switches to planks.

Tanaka struts over wondering, “What’s so funny over here?”

“Oh, look,” Tsukishima enthuses like they’re in front of a particularly exciting exhibit at the zoo.  “Yamaguchi, look.  Another bonobo.  We’re surrounded by bonobos.  Bonobos on all sides.”

“They’re everywhere,” Yamaguchi breathlessly agrees, fighting to keep his body in one straight line supported on his elbows, hands laced tightly together like he’s praying.  

He manages to do this for about three seconds before he starts giggling again.  Tsukishima snickers too, sweat dripping from his nose onto the floor.

Azumane joins the flock.  They always move in a flock.  If three team members stand in one place long enough, invariably, as the minutes pass the rest of the team will gather around them.  Azumane appears to be very concerned for their well being, like he’s right about to run and call an ambulance.

Tsukishima flips the next card, spades.  They both switch to sit-ups.  It burns.  Yamaguchi concentrates on his breathing.

“You don’t think they’re on drugs, do you?” Azumane asks, grave and timid at once.

“Hah!” Yamaguchi half whimpers and half laughs in the pause between sitting up and lowering himself back down again.  

Azumane hangs out with Nishinoya constantly and Nishinoya is _always_ carrying.  Given that this is the case, why would drug use concern him?  Is he unaware?  How could he possibly not know?  Nishinoya usually smells like he’s being raised by skunks.  On the other hand, it really wouldn’t surprise Yamaguchi if Nishinoya is in fact being raised by animals.  He thinks that is also a mean thing to think.  He doesn’t care anymore.

“Hoo,” Tsukishima laughs a little sound like an owl, and Yamaguchi knows they’re both thinking the exact same thing.  “That’s a -- _good one,_ \-- Azumane -- senpai.”

“You two blazin’ at practice?” Tanaka leans over them and asks, hands stuffed in his pockets, face screwed up into that weird mean-mug of his.  “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“Get away from -- Yamaguchi,-- troglodyte," Tsukishima responds. “He can’t look -- at your face -- without -- laughing.”

Yamaguchi looks up at Tanaka to tell him that’s not true.  But as soon as he opens his mouth he realizes Tanaka does sort of look like a troglodyte.  He droops to the floor and hides his face in his arms.  

He breaks into sob-like peels of laughter, “Ah!  Sorry, Tanaka-senpai.  I’m so sorry.”

Everyone turns to Sugawara for a translation.  Sugawara sighs, sounding like perhaps he’s reaching the end of his rope, which is terrifying.  Sugawara is many orders of magnitude more frightening when he’s really upset than Sawamura can ever hope to be.

“Troglodyte is synonymous with caveman.  It is a person who lives in a cave,” Sugawara informs his teammates, with an air of great disappointment.  “Do you two need to be separated, like children?”

Tsukishima exchanges a look with Yamaguchi, who hasn’t managed to get off the floor since he started giggling again.  They were actually separated in class because they wouldn’t stop passing notes, but not as middle schoolers.  They never did that as middle schoolers.  It had only become a problem earlier that very year.

“Probably,” they answer over one another, and titter.

This is hopeless, really.  If they’re just left here this they’ll be at it all night.  But, that looks that’s exactly what’s going to happen.  The team seems to agree that they are beyond help.  They heave a collective shrug and walk away to start the 3-on-3 rallies that end practice.

Yamaguchi’s lungs feel like they’ve dried up and are about to stop working.  There is not enough air in the room.  His entire upper-body tingles with dull, fiery pain.  He’s hot, and he’s dripping wet, and he’s dizzy.  He sort of likes it.  It kind of feels really good.

 _‘Sit up,’_ he mentally coaches himself. _‘You can do this.  Go on, sit up!’_

“Hey,” Tsukishima calls his attention.  He’s still somehow managing to keep perfect form in his planks. “Do you really want me to make it stop?”

He’s so tired he doesn’t even feel like he has complete control over his limbs anymore.  They’re noodles, overcooked noodles.  He flops a useless hand out toward Tsukishima and rolls his head to get a better look at his face.

“Come again?” he asks.

“Earlier, you were _begging_ me to make it stop,” he informs him, voice tight as his core muscles clench with the exercise.  He doesn’t look up from the floor. “Do you want me to make this stop?”

“Kinda,” he admits, hesitantly because it’s only half-true.  He doesn’t say _‘no’_ on account of how fucking creepy that would sound.

“Okay,” Tsukishima agrees, collapsing to the floor beside him.  Yamaguchi stares at Tsukishima.  Tsukishima stares at the ceiling.  He folds hands over his belly.  Yamaguchi watches them rise and fall with his breath.  “The safeword is safeword.  You know what that means?”

“Yeah,” he ascends even more hesitantly.  There's an unspoken, _'What the fuck, Tsukki?'_ wavering in his voice. He chuckles nervously.  

Yamaguchi likes everything about Tsukishima’s sense of humor right down to the way Tsukishima directs that viper mouth of his at him sometimes.  It’s thrilling in a way he has not yet been able to parse.  What’s more it’s validating.  Tsukishima is mean but he is not a bully.  He detests bullies as much as Yamaguchi does, though for entirely different reasons.  

Tsukishima dislikes them for sullying the art of the putdown.  Tsukishima would never lower himself to picking on someone he actually considered to be weaker than him.  If he’s dishing it, he assumes his subject can take it.  Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any sport in it.  It fascinates Yamaguchi, the way Tsukishima walks this line.

Whatever Tsukishima’s motivations, the thrill Yamaguchi feels gives him the sinking suspicion that he is some sort of _masochist_.  He guards this secret closely.  Tsukishima, of course, can never know.  He wonders why the _sweet hell_ Tsukishima would give him a safeword like that out of the blue, though.  He writes it off as a thoughtless joke.  At the same time a corner of his brain spirals off into panic that Tsukishima is onto him, because there are no thoughtless jokes with Tsukishima.  He wonders where he went wrong.

Before Yamaguchi can process further Tsukishima puts his hand in the air.  He waves lackadaisically until he catches Coach Ukai’s attention and he walks over.  Ukai folds his arms.  He looks down at them, obviously unimpressed with their juvenile behavior.  In close proximity, Ukai smells like cigarettes, as usual.  Yamaguchi resists the urge to pull his shirt up over his nose under this olfactory assault, as usual.

“What?” he grunts.  “Are you done?”

“No,” Tsukishima responds sounding sort of sycophantic, but not bothering to raise himself from the puddle of sweat that his body heat is condensing on the floor around him.  

He’s good at this, making adults do what he wants even while all but flipping them the bird.  Sometimes they even thank him afterward.  Teachers who cannot see through bullshit are an integral part of the magic behind his effortless A’s.  Even Yamaguchi has to admit this is a little, there is no other word for it, _warped_.  Ukai is a walking bullshit detector though, so Yamaguchi isn’t really sure what Tsukishima’s after.  

“Yamaguchi here can’t stop laughing,” Tsukishima explains diplomatically.

Yamaguchi nods morosely.  It’s true.  Somehow Tsukishima has pushed him to a tipping point, and now he’s half-crazed, hair trigger on hilarity, and almost everything is funny.  He hopes this doesn’t last forever, or he may require institutionalization.  Why, oh why, can’t he just act like a good boy and play nicely with the others?  

Ashamed, he curls on his side and makes a whining whimper of a laugh in acquiescence, “Ah-hnnn…”

Ukai almost looks sorry for him for a second before he asks, “So what?  If you’re tired of playing cards stop making him laugh.”

Tsukishima levels Ukai a meaningful glance as if to say, _‘You and I both know it’s too late for that.  He’s too far gone.  Poor fool.  Poor, poor fool.’_  

Yamaguchi thinks that if Ukai rolled his eyes any harder at them he’d literally give himself brain damage.  Then their team of freaks and morons would have _that_ on their hands.  Sawamura would be pissed.  He finds this hilarious.  He wishes he didn’t.  As if to demonstrate Tsukishima’s point he throws his arms over his face again and makes a spectacularly undignified noise not unlike a motorboat.  Thankfully, Ukai and Tsukishima don’t ask him to explain himself.

He apologizes profusely anyway, “I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry.  Ah-haha, sorry!”

“You’re not weaseling your way out of this Tsukishima.  Nice try,” Ukai replies.  “Five minutes is not a long time to go without making a snide remark.”

“I just mean to say,” Tsukishima argues as he rolls over and pushes himself up onto his elbows so he isn’t laying splayed out on the ground anymore.  “This isn’t working and we’re getting to the point where we might hurt ourselves.  Can’t we do windsprints instead?”

Yamaguchi hates windsprints more than he hates freckles, or the little piece of hair on the top of his head that never seems to want to behave, no matter what he does to it.  He wishes he could pay someone to go back in time and assassinate whoever invented them, even though he thinks he’s probably a pacifist by nature.  That’s how much he hates them.

“What?  No,” he complains.  He stops giggling.  “Tsukki, why must you do me this?”

At the same time, Ukai shrugs and walks away, “Fine, bye.  Have fun with that.”

Tsukishima rolls to his feet.

“Come on.  Let’s go,” Tsukishima says almost gently, like he’s talking to a mental patient, which in his defense, he very well may be.

Tsukishima offers his hand.  Yamaguchi grabs his forearm and is pulled up.  He likes the way he can feel Tsukishima’s sinewy tendons move under his skin with the flex of his muscles.

 _‘Ugh.  Self,’_  Yamaguchi revolts at his last thought.   _‘Weird with amorous intent.  You are the definition of creepy.  Why are you acting like this, self?  Why?  Stop giggling. Pull it together.  Think sad thoughts.  Dead puppies.  Puppies being defenestrated.’_

He thinks of a puppy flying out a window wearing a cape.  They run around the perimeter of the gym, sprinting the long sides and jogging the short ones. He thinks of the cape wearing puppy floating outside the window of his classroom, while Tsukishima ignores it. He thinks of this image plastered across coming attractions posters with the title _Puppies Flying_ and the subtitle _Tsukishima does not give a fuck, not one fuck._  He doesn’t even get around half a circuit before he makes that motorboat noise again.  Tsukishima doesn’t comment.

“You know what I think?” Tsukishima pants after another half circuit and there’s mischief in his voice.

“Oh, no.  Please don’t think, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi pleads.  “Please don’t think.  Just for five minutes.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima deadpans.

“Well, I can’t handle it!” he shrills and tries to outrun him on the next long stretch.

“Clearly,” Tsukishima observes when he catches up.  “Listen.  I need you to focus for me.  I need you to look at Hinata’s face.  Gaze directly into the abyss of his vapid little face.  Then, tell me, what’s the first thing to come to mind?”

He does.  Hinata is on the bench staring blankly into the middle distance.  He chuckles immediately.  He tries again.  His first thought is the sound of the tweet of a whistle indicating that a ball has fallen out of bounds.  Kageyama squints at him and mouths _‘what?’_ like he wants to throw down.  He pretends to have been looking at something else.

“He’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal,”  Yamaguchi is sad to admit.

“Yes but, more specifically, he looks _lost_.  Doesn’t he?  There he is... _lost_  in the gymnasium where we practice _every single day_.  The poor stupid twat,” Tsukishima almost sounds bad for him.

“Mmm… heh,” Yamaguchi hums, and starts to crack up a little even though Tsukishima clearly has not reached the punchline yet.

“Remember that time,” Tsukishima says, like he is on the verge of sharing a secret of great importance, “he got lost right here in our own hometown?”

How could he forget?  They, doubled over laughing, volunteered to go find him.  The entire rest of the team rounded on them and said, _‘Not you!’_  It was some freaky hivemind shit if he ever saw any.

“Yeah, Tsukki, I remember,” he affirms voice quivering at the hilarity, slightly embarrassed that he still can’t seem to control himself.

“That got me thinking...” Tsukishima pauses dramatically.

Yamaguchi takes the bait, “Umhm?”

“The first people to weaponize Hinata’s sense of direction will rule the world,” Tsukishima tells him, with a completely straight face, like he is entirely serious.

Yamaguchi _cackles_.  He actually cackles, and it hurts quite a bit with the wind he’s sucking.  He wipes a merry tear from his eye with the back of his hand.  It makes him notice that the corners of his eyes are chaffed from wiping tears away.

“So…” Tsukishima continues.

He begs, “Tsukki, don’t.  No more.”

“Uh… _‘Tsukki, don’t,’_ isn’t the safeword.  But, thanks for playing,” Tsukishima replies, sounding very, very satisfied with himself.  

He shoots Yamaguchi a blithe smile.  Yamaguchi’s heart jumps.  If Yamaguchi was stupid he would think Tsukishima was flirting with him.  But, he’s not.  So, he doesn’t.  Tsukishima’s intelligent, gold eyes flick over his face in a way that would make him want to fidget if they weren’t already running in circles. Their gazes catch for just one stilted half-beat too long. Tsukishima blinks.

“Anyway,” Tsukishima clears his throat and resumes looking where he’s going.  “We’re going to take his abysmal sense of direction, and we’re going to cram it into a laser beam.   Then, we’ll sell it to the Americans and make billions.”

Hearing this makes him feel like someone has reached up inside his chest and is wrenching his insides around.    He sort of wants to ask what _they_ would do with _their_ billions.  He wishes Tsukishima wouldn’t joke about things like that.

“I see soldiers wandering West African deserts searching for the bullet train to Tokyo…  I bet his stupid is that powerful,” Tsukishima says with disgust and note of morbid curiosity.  “Man, just _look_ at him.  It has to be.”

Yamaguchi snorts violently.  It’s a disgusting sound.  He can feel his soft palate flapping, limp and snotty against the back of his throat.

“Ah-hah!  What was that sound?” Tsukishima laughs at him.

He hates it when Tsukishima laughs at him.  His jog slows to a crawl.  Suddenly, he feels sober, and unwell.  He wants to hide in the bathroom and stare into the mirror and try to convince himself that he is not too ugly to live.  But he doesn’t need to do that.  He could make Tsukishima stop instead.  He can press pause. What an interesting power he's been given.

“Safeword,” he mutters, reluctantly.

“It hurts to run and laugh like this,” Tsukishima continues, probably because he didn’t hear him.  “How’ve you been doing that this whole time?  You must really be a _masochist_ , Yamaguchi.”

That hurts.  That scares him.  He doesn't like that at all.

“I said safeword, Tsukki!” he shouts, and all but stamps his foot.

He shouts with far more exasperation and volume than he intended.

He shouts just as Coach Ukai is shouting, “Beavis and Butthead, how are you doing over--”

Except, he shouts far louder than Ukai.

The entire team goes dead still and dead silent.  They whip their heads around to stare at Yamaguchi. They’re frozen like they’re posing for a photograph to go in the dictionary under the entry _awkward_.  The only sound is that of the freshly set volleyball Hinata has failed to spike bouncing away like it is trying to slink from the room.  

Yamaguchi feels like he’s under several spotlights, that are all shocked and appalled.  It occurs to him that it might be possible for a person to die of shame.  Behind him, Tsukishima doesn’t say anything.

Nishinoya is the first to speak, because of course he is.  He claps his hands together like he’s been struck by genius.

He floats his idea, “The safeword for Tsukishima is safeword?  That’s a great idea!  I think we should adopt this as a team-wide policy.  Like _‘I don’t feel like listening to you being a giant, wobbly cunt today, Tsukishima.  Safeword!’_ ”

“That’s flattering Noya-senpai,” Tsukishima rejoins. “But you need to be at least 5’5” to ride and I wouldn’t want to leave anybody out.”

Tsukishima is wrecked and glistening with sweat, yet never has a dick joke been delivered with such gravitas.  Yachi and Shimizu both blush red at the boys’ dirty mouths.  Takeda-sensei fiddles with his glasses.  Ukai stands beside him, looking like he has never been more sorry to be in a room of dumb, horny teenagers.  Nishinoya’s mouth drops open like somebody just pissed in his cereal.  

The scene tips Yamaguchi over the edge.  He remembers _everything is funny_.  It hits him all at once.  His humiliation doesn’t matter.  His fear of humiliation doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters as long as he remembers... _everything is funny_.  

Tsukishima has broken his brain.

“Ah-hah-ha!” Yamaguchi throws his head back and warbles, drunk from the endorphin high of his laughter fits and their intense workout.  He holds his aching sides.  “Zing!  Ah-haha.”

Sawamura has had enough.

“Out!” he bellows, throwing the gymnasium door open with a resounding clatter and pointing like he’s talking to a pair of misbehaving dogs.  “Both of you, get out.  Do laps around the school until practice is over.”

Yamaguchi trails Tsukishima out of the gym and does his very best to at least keep a hold of himself until they get outside.  Except, right as he passes Sawamura he notices that a vein in his forehead is pulsing in a way that makes him look like a crotchety old man.

“Fufufu,” he giggles, right in his face.

The door slams behind them. _‘And stay out!’_ it seems to say.

There is a quiet pause in which they listen to the crickets chirp.  Then, Tsukishima starts laughing like a hyena.  He takes off his sport glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.  This seems to calm him down.

“Why are we acting so--” Tsukishima stops a moment to catch his breath.  “What’s _wrong_ with us?”

Yamaguchi looks up at the full moon, and the stars.  He takes big gulps of night air.  He shrugs.

“I don’t think I really care,” he replies.

“Huh,” Tsukishima huffs.  Something about this idea seems to strike him.  “You know what?  Neither do I.”

Yamaguchi starts running.  Tsukishima follows after.

It doesn’t occur to Yamaguchi that maybe he has given himself something to be nervous about until some time later.


	2. Protect My Banana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi makes a joke about 'Morning Mood': https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCEzh3MwILY

They have an hour and forty-five minute break between the end of school and the start of practice. Tsukishima and Yamaguchi usually use it to do their homework, and have a snack. The other first years and the second years usually use it to idle in the club room.

“Do me a favor?” Tsukishima asks offhandedly during this break exactly one week after the folie à deux laughing fit incident.

They’re alone in their classroom. Tsukishima’s already done with his homework, and bored with his strawberry gummy snacks. He’s attempting to stack them into little towers. It isn’t working out very well for him.

He clearly doesn’t even view them as food anymore. He would never do anything that disgusting with food. He is neat and exact with his table manners, delicate even.

“Yeah, anything,” Yamaguchi responds without thinking and without looking up from his book.

“Anything,” Tsukishima repeats, leaning forward toward him just slightly, just a hair. He seems to forget about whatever favor he wanted to ask. One of his gummy towers topples. He doesn’t notice. “You’ll do anything for me?”

He has a strange, mildly worrying sort of incredulous wonder in his voice. Yamaguchi’s never heard it there before. Well, he’s almost never heard it. Awe is usually reserved for rock bands, and mathematics, and the stupidity of his peers. Tsukishima doesn’t take his eyes off him.

Heat rises in Yamaguchi’s face. This is the only context in which he is glad for his tanned complexion and freckles. They do well to mask milder signs of embarrassment. He’s pretty sure he would have been sent to the guidance counselor for therapy by now if the school staff noticed how prone he is to crippling bouts of social anxiety when not using Tsukishima or his other teammates as a crutch. He forces himself to keep working his math problems.

“Yeah,” he replies, bluffing that he doesn’t understand why Tsukishima is making such a big deal out of it. “I’ll do anything.”

“Okay,” Tsukishima drawls and relaxes back into his seat. “Anything.”

His voice is a bit pressed as though he is straining to think of a way to call Yamaguchi’s bluff immediately and exploit ‘ _anything_ ’ that very second. Yamaguchi’s pencil stops moving. He glances up at Tsukishima.

A look flutters across Tsukishima’s face: there one second, gone the next. It’s the same look that flutters across his face when he pulls the lever on the slot machine in Yamaguchi’s grandfather’s basement and gets ‘ _cherry - cherry - cherry... ka-ching! jackpot!_ ’ then treats them both to ice cream, no matter what the season.

Yamaguchi thinks his grandfather keeps the slot machine stocked with coins because he likes Tsukishima and wants them to have an excuse to go out for ice cream together. Yamaguchi does not think he is about to be treated to ice cream. He has no idea what’s about to happen next. The thrill feels better than it has any right to.

Tsukishima digs around in his goofy backpack, the one that matches his own. Akiteru got them these as a joke one year for Christmas and Tsukishima insists they use them. Yamaguchi is sure this is just another small battle in their inexplicable sibling rivalry. Yamaguchi is also sure, judging from Akiteru and Tsukishima’s relationship, that he will never understand what it is like to have siblings.

Tsukishima puts an under-ripe banana down on Yamaguchi’s notebook, right on top of the problem he’s trying to complete. Staring at it in confusion Yamaguchi revises. Maybe he did have some idea of what he wanted to happen next. This was not it. He tries not to appear disappointed, or disgusted with himself.

He feels a little bad for inflicting his dirty thoughts on his not quite innocent but certainly not sexually depraved friend. So, Tsukishima teases him a little bit. That doesn’t mean he deserves to be objectified. That is not the person his grandfather raised him to be. Absolutely not!

“Protect my banana,” Tsukishima commands. Then, before Yamaguchi can recover from exactly how weird Tsukishima is sometimes, Tsukishima stands with a clatter of his chair, pulls his headphones on, gathers his things, and cooly makes his exit. “See you at practice.”

“Alrighty then…” Yamaguchi tells the empty classroom once it’s just him, and Tsukishima’s banana. “Protect his banana, Tadashi.”

He pushes Tsukishima’s banana to the side and finishes his homework. He packs his things. He cleans the nasty gummy snacks off Tsukishima’s desk. He wipes it down so it won’t be sticky in the morning. Tsukishima would hate that, and Yamaguchi would really rather Tsukishima didn’t get his day off to a bad start because when he’s peeved in the morning, he’s pettish in the afternoon and that isn’t good news for anybody.

He’s not sure what to do next. He smooshes his cheek down on the desk next to Tsukishima’s and stares at Tsukishima’s banana. He has a one-sided conversation with it.

 _‘I am your mighty knight, Tsukki’s banana! Never fear,’_ he thinks at it. _‘You shall come to no harm.’_

He glances at the clock, 35 more minutes until practice. He wonders just how long one can converse with a banana. Tsukishima’s banana doesn’t seem very sociable. Yamaguchi isn’t surprised.

 _‘Let’s take a nap, Tsukki’s banana,’_ he thinks at it.

As soon as he closes his eyes the banana mocks in their teeny-tiny banana voice, _‘He knows. He knows you’re a closet pervert. He’s testing you. He won’t be your friend anymore when he finds out.’_

“Don’t be a jerk, banana,” he replies, stuffs the banana in his inner jacket pocket.

He promptly drifts off into the deep sort of sleep where time doesn’t seem to exist. He has a bizarre dream about french fries falling from the sky. They’re not very soft so they sting like hail when they rain down on him. It isn’t the first time he’s had this dream. He knows he’s dreaming.

He also knows he just has to wait it out. Then he can have the satisfaction of jumping on the stupid crispy fries and feeling them crunch like fall leaves when the storm passes. He stands there and takes it, eyes closed so the fries don’t do any damage when they hit him in the face. He is glad that no one can see him embarrassing himself in his sleep. Except, right when the french fry cloud looks like it’s about to blow over he’s startled awake.

The first stimulus that trickles through to his awareness is extremely unpleasant. Someone is in the room and for some reason they are shouting in an accent that Yamaguchi thinks is sort of racist.

“Wa-cha! Gimme the banana!”

“Huh!” Yamaguchi grunts moronically, sitting bolt upright. “Whazzat? Tsukki’s banana?”

He pats his pocket to make sure it’s still there. It is. He’s relieved.

Then he notices Hinata is standing at the head of the classroom, where the teacher usually lectures, scissoring his arms like he thinks he’s going to karate chop Yamaguchi if he doesn’t comply with his demand to quote, _‘Wa-cha! Gimme the banana!’_

That’s cute. Yamaguchi thinks he probably learned to fight from bad action movies, rather than being picked on incessantly. Good for him. That’s a good thing, never having been on the receiving end of an actual schoolyard brawl. They’re bloody, and dehumanizing, and filthy, and painful. But, Yamaguchi’s experience still means he could probably kick Hinata’s waify ass if he needed to, and fought dirty.

 _‘Ugh… why?’_ Yamaguchi mourns. _‘Tadashi hates awake. Naptime. Dammit. I missed the good part of french fry dream-time.’_

Kageyama enters the room and, as though someone had to hold a gun to his head to force him to take his mouth off his juicebox, he grumbles, “Yamaguchi, how much do you want for it?”

“Excuse me?” Yamaguchi manages, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s not for sale. I--”

“Bwa!” Hinata interrupts, and does a half-assed jump-kick. “Give up the banana!”

Yamaguchi has no idea why he wants it. But it obviously traces back to Tsukishima. He watches Hinata half-assedly pretend to be a kung-fu master and wonders what he missed.

Tanaka’s face appears in the doorway. It gives Yamaguchi the willies. Poor Tanaka, if he could only learn to stop making that stupid face he might actually one of the more handsome boys on the team.

He ambles into the room with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Tanaka’s hands are in his pockets so often that Yamaguchi thinks he’s had them all lined with silk or velvet or something.

“Has he had his 30 seconds yet?” Tanaka asks Kageyama, ignoring Hinata’s foolery.

“Dunno,” Kageyama grumps, and folds his arms, and tilts his head higher in the air. He verbs the adjective grump. That’s how hard he’s grumping. “I’m not playing.”

Hinata stops doing that ridiculous scissor thing with his arms, finally.

“Aw… Stingy-yama,” Hinata pouts. “I thought we were a team.”

 _‘Team dumbass,’_ Yamaguchi thinks.

Yamaguchi re-thinks that thought, then realizes he’s irritable when he first wakes up too. He should cut Tsukishima some slack for his morning peevishness.

Right when Yamaguchi is about to ask what exactly is going on, Nishinoya’s excited voice racing through the hall toward them, stuttering with his footsteps, provides his answer:

“There’s a -- bounty -- on the -- banana!”

Nishinoya bursts into the classroom like he thinks he’s a superhero appearing on the scene at the perfect moment. He is, apparently, heedless of the property damage he would have been committing had he thrown the door open any more enthusiasm. The animals who are raising him really need to teach him how to enter a room like a civilized human being.

Another unkind thought? Wow, is he ever unhappy to be awake.

Yamaguchi yawns. He tries taking a page out of Tsukishima’s book.

“I don’t have a banana,” he lies, poorly, unable to look at any of them while he says it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This falls flat on its face, of course.

“The banana you don’t have isn’t for sale?” Kageyama asks.

Yamaguchi always forgets that Kageyama is pretty damn bright, even if he’s blissfully unaware that he is an epic dingus.

His phone buzzes with a text alert. Blessedly everyone is quiet while he opens it. It reads:

_There are three rules._

_1: They cannot harm you._

_2: If you give them the banana they have to stop._

_3: You have a 30 second head start._

_-Tsukki_

Yamaguchi mashes the keys:

_You siced Hinata and Noya on me. How? - Yamaguchi_

Tsukishima’s response is almost immediate and it initiates a volley of texts. They never quarrel in person the way they do over text. It’s very strange.

_¥¥¥ and boredom. - Tsukki_

_Don’t be upset. You said ‘anything.’ - Tsukki_

_I’m not upset! - Yamaguchi_

_You are upset. Are you giving up? - Tsukki_

_Certainly not! - Yamaguchi_

_Good. I’d get moving if I were you. - Tsukki_

_I texted Noya that he can start right away if your ass isn’t out of that room in 60 seconds. - Tsukki_

_I’ll give you something nice if you hold onto it until practice starts. - Tsukki_

The conversation pauses here. How insulting! He doesn’t need the promise of a reward to want to win. He’s going to kick butt at this game. That’ll teach Tsukishima a thing or two.

_Fine! - Yamaguchi_

Tsukishima texts back because he always needs to have the last word:

_Cool. - Tsukki_

_‘Okay,’_ he coaches himself. _‘Fuck it. Here we go. I can play keep-away for fifteen minutes. No problem. No problem. They’re your friends. They won’t hurt you. They’re not trying to steal your lunch money or give you a swirly or make you eat dirt. It’s just a banana.’_

Yamaguchi rises from his seat. He walks to the door. Nobody gives him any trouble except Tsukishima’s banana who, in their teeny-tiny banana voice, mocks, _‘Dead man walking.’_

“Use a phone to time thirty seconds,” he requests calmly, like these are his last words and he, resigned to his fate, would like at least to sound dignified. “Don’t count it aloud. That’s cheating.”

Tanaka shrugs, “I just came by to make sure you’re alright with these two trying to take you down. But, if that’s what you want...” He pulls out his cellphone. “Ready, Yamaguchi? Go! Good luck, buddy!”

Yamaguchi breaks into a full sprint down the hallway, backpack bouncing dorkily behind. In his 30 seconds of dashing madly he thinks, _‘Where should I hide? Is having friends more of a pain in the ass than being bullied? Where the fuck is Tsukishima? What am I doing with my life?’_

He ends up hiding in the shadows underneath the staircase on the bottom floor. He pushes the door open first to make it sound like he’s gone outside. He’s practiced at this. He’s had to outrun attackers way too many times. He counts the seconds and breathes as quietly as possible, heart pounding in his ears.

On 36 he hears two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs after him. One takes the steps in ebullient bounds, Nishinoya. The other takes them in neat little steps then leaps the last stairs of the set all in one go, Hinata.

When they reach the landing where he’s hiding Hinata enthuses, “I bet he’s outside!”

The doors swing open. The landing is flooded with light. The doors slam shut. In this moment, Yamaguchi peeks out. His heart jumps. Nishinoya is still standing there. He’s looking in the other direction but he is silent and very, very still, head cocked to listen. Yamaguchi leans back against the wall, claps his hand over his mouth, and holds his breath.

He always forgets that Nishinoya is goddamn smart too. Yamaguchi knows not many people would agree with this but he thinks Nishinoya is probably at least top three on the team in terms of raw intelligence. For all Yamaguchi’s unkind thoughts, Nishinoya does, in fact, possess the formless sort of animal cunning that is neither taught nor tested in schools. He is not going to make these fifteen minutes easy.

Nishinoya circles. He wanders into the hall to check surrounding classrooms. Yamaguchi takes this opportunity to crouch down, hold his bookbag to his chest, and make himself small. Nishinoya pads back into the stairwell. For a breathless moment he stops. Yamaguchi’s hands feel like they’re shaking. Nishinoya opens the door and goes outside.

Yamaguchi doesn’t give himself time to celebrate. He runs back up the stairs and crosses to the other side of the building. He hides in his classroom, and watches out the window from behind the blinds while Nishinoya and Hinata search for him down in the courtyard. One minute, two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes pass. He’s tense every one of them.

“Oi,” a voice mutters and almost startles him out of his skin.

Kageyama is in the classroom with him. His knowledge of where his teammates are and his uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere are downright creepy no matter what the context. If they were born in a different age the setter would have been burned as a witch, Yamaguchi is convinced of this.

Kageyama pulls out his cellphone. The look on his face says, _‘Team Dumbass 1, Team Tsukishima’s Banana 0. Mic drop. Exit stage left.’_

 _‘No!’_ Yamaguchi thinks, with approximately a million extra _o_ ’s as he watches in what he feels is slow motion while Kageyama press a button on speed dial.

He knows this is payback for the countless unnecessary giggles that have passed his lips at the expense of Kageyama in the presence of Tsukishima. He doesn’t stick around to hear what Kageyama has to say. Kageyama can only be calling Hinata to give away his location.

He bolts from the classroom and takes a gamble on exiting the building through the front entrance. From the corner of his eye he can see Hinata and Nishinoya rounding the east side of the building. He made the right choice. He takes a quick look at the clock tower. There are six more minutes until practice.

Yamaguchi spots Sugawara walking off on the other side of the yard, minding his own business, as usual. He's a godsend, as usual. Yamaguchi arches his path so it’ll cross Sugawara’s. He is so peaceful. Gynt’s 'Morning Mood' should play in the background within a five foot radius of Sugawara at all times. Yamaguchi thinks woodland creatures bask in the glory of his calm when people aren’t looking. But, Yamaguchi doesn’t have time to bask in his calm. Does he?

“Help me!” Yamaguchi cries as he races past him, backpack still bouncing dorkily behind.

When he’s a good distance away he glances over his shoulder. Sugawara has a flailing Hinata caught by the hood of his sweatshirt. Damn! He was hoping he would go for Nishinoya, who is clearly the more dangerous of the two. But no, Nishinoya is still gaining on him.

The gymnasium, that’s it! Maybe Sawamura or some other reasonable human being is in there waiting for practice to start. He makes it to the gym just in time to throw the door closed and lock it. He’s alone. He sighs his relief. He wipes the sweat from his brow. He starts to catch his breath.

...He startles. To his terror and dismay, he hears the teeth of a key sliding into the locking mechanism of the door he just bolted shut. Damn it all, Nishinoya is a slick little bastard. The door clicks open. Yamaguchi runs to the other side of the gym. He tries the door. It doesn't give. He tries the next set of doors. They don't give either. All doors except the door Nishinoya has opened are locked.  Nishinoya is a _really_ slick little bastard.

 _‘Who designs buildings to lock from the outside?’_ he wonders despondently.

“Gotcha!” Nishinoya sing-songs, spinning the gym’s keyring on his finger.

He locks the door behind him. Yamaguchi tries the locked door on the opposite side of the gym once more, frantically.

“Put down the banana and nobody gets hurt,” Nishinoya tells him like he’s an actor practicing a new line. Then he mutters to himself, “Heh, I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Nope,” Yamaguchi responds nervously, edging away. "I'm not giving it up."

He was given a job to do and he’s going to show Tsukishima he can do it. He doesn’t care how stupid it is. He looks at the clock. Only three more minutes, he can hold out for three more minutes. He takes the banana out of his pocket and grips it in his hands so it can’t be stolen.  He can do this.

“If that’s the way you want it," Nishinoya heaves a big, dramatic shrug.  "So you know… my safeword is also safeword.”

Then, Nishinoya winks at him. He _winks_ at him. Yamaguchi has not a clue how he’s supposed to respond to that, not one.

So he backs dumbly away while Nishinoya closes in on him. When his back hits the padded wall Yamaguchi winces.  He doesn't stop wincing until Nishinoya reaches out and squeezes his waist, exactly on a pressure point that tickles terribly. He certainly isn’t gentle. Then again, he never is. But, he doesn’t hurt him either. Yamaguchi appreciates that.

Almost everyone on the team has done this waist grab move to almost everyone else on the team at one point or another. It’s like some bonobo bonding ritual where they sneak up from behind, and use the deadly combination of surprise and tickle to make their teammates drop whatever they happen to be holding: volleyballs, water bottles, smelly bags of dirty laundry. There are no limits. The only person who doesn’t regularly participate is Tsukishima, and even he got Nishinoya once.

But, Nishinoya doesn’t just squeeze once. He squeezes and squeezes until Yamaguchi’s legs give out from under him and he’s gasping out convulsive laughter with his face pressed up against the hardwood floor. He bites down on his bottom lip. He does not fight back much, but he doesn't beg or cry out either. Nishinoya stands over him, straddling him, and keeps right on tickling. After a while Yamaguchi notices that his hands are wet for some reason.

Oh, dear. He’s murdered his poor banana friend. He’s wrung the life right out of it.

 _‘Eeeeeee,’_ he hears Tsukishima’s banana wail its mournful high-pitched death cry.

Nishinoya doesn’t seem to be able to hear it. The banana is cracked and has spewed its guts onto the gymnasium floor, and both of them. Nasty off-white splotches stain everywhere but Nishinoya is so engaged in tickling the hell out of him that he does not seem give a toss about the cool, black uniforms he loves so much.

“Are you ready to give up yet?” Nishinoya asks finally.

“I can't,” Yamaguchi pants.

Nishinoya snorts a laugh, “Exactly the answer I’d expect from you, Yamaguchi.”

Yamaguchi knows that’s meant as a compliment but he doesn’t have time to parse it because Nishinoya abruptly changes tactics in a way that throws Yamaguchi completely off guard.

“Hey, you got banana on your face, you know,” he points out.

Nishinoya reaches out and wipes it away, sweetly. Against his cheek the pad of Nishinoya’s thumb is rough. Nishinoya dabs his thumb against his lips and sucks it clean. Bearing witness to this, Yamaguchi’s mouth falls open into the shape of a surprised _o_. Suddenly he is very aware that Nishinoya smells like hair product and orange peel soap and _boy_. His grip on the banana carcass loosens. His shocked brain fizzles out two realizations. They flash to life like light bulbs.

Realization Number One: Nishinoya is a) sexually omnivorous and is b) flirting for no other reason than that he can, like he does with all his friends. Whatever. He wishes he could say he is surprised. He doesn’t really mind. It’s sort of flattering. His ego could use some stroking. That falls by the wayside for...

Realization Number Two: He definitely likes bad boys.

Really, Nishinoya and Tsukishima couldn’t be more different. But all at once he knows they are two sides of the exact same coin. Nishinoya, puffed up like a proud little rooster, is the wild, loitering in parking lots, skirt-chasing, class-cutting, joint-rolling, big-hearted delinquent sort of bad. Tsukishima, eyes shimmering with trouble, is the too-smart-for-his-own-good, razor-blade tongued, petulant-rebel ice-prince sort of bad.

The rotten ones, that’s what he’s into. It’s his taste, his type. He doesn't just want to look at them. No, no, no. He wants to be toyed with by them.

He feels like he needs to sit practice out and think this over. And he never sits out practice unless explicitly told to do so, say if the team doesn’t want to catch his cold.

Scratch that. He feels like he’s been handed life-term prison sentence, and he’s insane enough to be excited about the prospect. He really can’t tell if he’s more terrified or exhilarated.

He wonders what happened in his development to make him this way. What choice did he make that lead him down the wrong path? Is there any hope of remediation?

Nishinoya has stopped grabbing for the banana and gone still.

“You okay there, dude?” Nishinoya soothes, still standing over him, note of concern in his voice. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 _‘Don’t mind me, Senpai!’_ Yamaguchi thinks. _‘Just having yet another mini-crisis in my astoundingly disturbing sexual awakening! The usual… You know how things go!’_

“I’m good, actually,” Yamaguchi responds, and he’s mildly surprised to hear himself say that in a way that is almost calm.

“Does that mean you’re ready to give me the banana?” Nishinoya asks with a feisty smile.

He sticks his tongue out between his teeth and threatens another tickle fit with a slow raising of his hands, fingers wiggling.

“No!” Yamaguchi, back in the game again, shakes his head and practically snarls. He cradles the sticky, twisted corpse of the banana even closer. It is vitally important that he does not lose the banana. He only has to hold on for a few more seconds. “Don’t take it!”

This is exactly the point at which the gym door slides open and the entire rest of the team, lead by Sawamura, appears in the doorway. He’s conversing with Sugawara saying:

“Yeah, I know I had the keys earlier. I don’t know who locked the--”

Tsukishima is looking over Sawamura’s shoulder, in his sports glasses and knee pads, all ready to play some volleyball. He is unmoved. Of course, as usual, he cannot be bothered to care about the absurd scenes he engineers.

“Why aren’t you two dressed for practice?” Sawamura really sounds like a dad talking to his infuriating children. “What are you covered in? Yamaguchi, is that a banana?”

Yamaguchi nods. He wants to hold the ripped and dripping banana peel up like a trophy so Tsukishima can see it. He is champion, banana champion! He restrains himself.

Nishinoya gives Sawamura a toothy grin, and opens his mouth to explain.

Sawamura cuts him off, “On second thought, don’t! I don’t want to know what you were doing. I am completely sure I am better off not knowing. Get dressed.”

As they leave the gym they hang their heads in shame, or in Nishinoya’s case whatever approximation of shame his shameless soul is capable of feeling. Nishinoya is all over him on the way to the club room, verbally at least. He keeps his distance physically.

“Did I freak you out back there? Are you okay? You looked spooked for a second.”

Yamaguchi pacifies his doggedly sex-crazed senior with a queasy smile, “We’re good, Noya-senpai.”

It occurs to him, he wouldn’t mind Nishinoya knowing he’s a freak because Nishinoya is clearly a freak, too. Actually, he sort of wants to talk about it. Yachi told him that it helps to talk about things that make him nervous. It doesn’t always work. But, for the most part, she was right. He decides to try it. He isn't exactly sure how to bring the topic up politely.

He asks, with no preamble, which he figures is alright because this is Nishinoya he’s talking to anyway, “Are you kinky?”

Nishinoya responds excitedly, because of course he does, “Are we playing sex-ed senpai? Is-- Is that what we’re doing?”

Nishinoya looks up at him with the dewy eyed, dreamy stare he gets when he weirdly cries, _‘Yes! Oh, my God! Call me Senpai again!’_ Already Yamaguchi thinks he’s going to regret bringing the topic up.

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi admits.

Nishinoya throws his arms in the air. “Score! In your face, Suga. I can play sex-ed senpai, too. High five, me!”

“Uh… right...” Yamaguchi has no idea what Nishinoya is talking about but he gives Nishinoya his high-five anyway. “So, are you freaky?”

“Guilty as charged,” Nishinoya declares proudly. “The kink-dar is strong in you, young freaky-one.”

“Think a person can be innately freaky?” Yamaguchi wonders aloud.

“Totally,” Nishinoya enthuses. “It’s usually the quiet ones.”

This doesn’t make Yamaguchi feel much better. He doesn’t want to be innately freaky. He doesn’t want to be innately anything. He likes things he can work on, or fix.

So, he asks, “You ever feel bad about it?”

“I don’t know,” Nishinoya says but it sounds like a categorical _'yes'_. He scratches the back of his head. He kicks some pebbles. “I guess it makes me nervous when I think about it when I try to talk to girls, like I’m creepy or something.”

 _‘Creepy is weird with amorous intent, Noya-senpai. You fit the definition,’_ Yamaguchi thinks but he doesn’t say that because he gets it. He’s nervous when he talks to girls too. He’s nervous when he talks to just about anyone. Case in point:

“I’m just asking ‘cause I think I’m some sort of masochist,” Yamaguchi blurts dweebily and he sounds just as afraid as he is, but it’s nice to be honest.

Nishinoya goes quiet. It isn’t an awkward sort of quiet. It never is with Nishinoya. He’s the sort of person whose presence fills a room. But, it’s unfathomably larger when he’s silent than he is when he’s running his mouth. _‘I’m here,’_ it says, and demands nothing. It’s comforting.

When they’re alone inside the clubroom Nishinoya takes off his jacket, and holds out his arms.

“Lookit all my bruises,” he points out, proudly. “There’re a lot of them, right?”

Yamaguchi studies them like they’re the prizes Nishinoya seems to think they are, like pieces of art under museum glass. They are pretty in a morbid way. They make him look like someone went mad with a watercolor set, painting small, living, purple-blue blooms that fade to yellow all down his limbs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, not sure what Nishinoya is getting at because he knows Nishinoya gets those from playing libero. It comes with the territory. “You do have a lot of them.”

Nishinoya smiles. “You know… Sometimes, I’ll say, _‘Hey, Asahi-san. Hey! Look, Asahi-san! Lookit at these new bruises I got for you! You know how much I love them, Mr. Scaredy-Cat? Press down on one. Go on! I want to feel them again. It feels good. They hurt nice.’_ ”

Nishinoya shrugs as if to say, _‘Yep, strange but true.’_ Yamaguchi processes that for a while. They set about changing.

As he pulls on his knee guards he asks, “And what does Azumane-senpai say?”

“It offends his wholesome, scaredy-cat sensibilities, of course,” Nishinoya laughs to himself, adjusting his elbow pads. “But, he does it anyway. I know he likes it. ...You shouldn’t bother with people who don’t like you for your weird.”

“Hm,” Yamaguchi acknowledges.

“Need a minute?” Nishinoya asks but doesn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll make up some excuse for you. Take your time.”

Yamaguchi listens to Nishinoya take the steps in hops. He wishes he was brave like Nishinoya. He is careful when he pulls his shoelaces tight. Yamaguchi, lost in this thought, startles when he exits the club room and finds Tsukishima there leaning against the wall near the door frame.

“Hey,” Tsukishima says, and further catches him off-guard by gripping his wrist and pulling him close. “Listen, I gotta make this quick since I told them I was just running to the bathroom. But, I wanted to give you your reward for doing so well protecting that banana.”

“Now?” Yamaguchi argues by which he means _‘You don’t need to do that. Seriously.’_

“Shut up and close your eyes,” Tsukishima insists, more than a touch bratty.

Yamaguchi obeys, even though he is so very confused.

“Okay, so...” Tsukishima murmurs.

Tsukishima takes hold of one of Yamaguchi’s hands. The touch of his fingers is feather light, much warmer than Yamaguchi imagined, and if he’s being honest with himself he imagines Tsukishima’s touch a lot. Tsukishima presses something into the palm of his hand. It’s firm and long and slightly bent.

It’s a goddamn banana.

Yamaguchi breathes through his frustration, and disappointment, and frustration with his disappointment.

Then he laughs, “Dammit, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima laughs too.  The sound of it makes everything better.

He opens his eyes to Tsukishima adjusting his sports glasses, even though they don’t need adjusting. It’s his one of his only tells, something he does when he is nervous. Tsukishima looks confused for a stilted moment, in which Yamaguchi pushes away the thought that their faces are so close they could kiss. Tsukishima recovers himself quickly. He releases his hand and walks away without further explanation.

“Let’s go to practice.”

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi agrees, and follows carrying his banana with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... I feel like I phoned this one in. Sorry guys.


	3. Cooler Than a Vagaceratops

There is not medication for teenage boy hormones. Yamaguchi thinks that maybe there should be. He cannot seem to conduct himself like a civilized human being.

He sits on the edge of his bathtub studying a thin, black zip-tie he pilfered from his grandfather's workbench in the basement. Late afternoon sunlight is pouring into the powder blue tiled bathroom, which is very clean but hasn't been renovated since the early 1970's at least.

The anesthetizing effects of talking about his problems only last a few days. He can't pester Nishinoya every time he's feeling insecure. That would be impolite. Besides, he has the feeling that Nishinoya has a lot going on in his life that he doesn't talk about. He's always had a sense for people like that.

He's taking matters into his own hands. That's right! He's going to prove to himself that he is not a masochist. Masochists like being tied up, and other such stuff. So, he'll tie himself up. If he doesn't like it, he's not a masochist. Simple! If he does like it, well, he'll probably have a crippling panic attack right there on the fluffy pink bath mat he's squishing between his toes. But, he'll deal with that when he gets to it.

He kneels on the floor. He feeds the plastic ribbon through the latch to make a loop and puts his wrists through. The tie makes the high-pitched wizzing zip noise it's named for as he pulls it tight with his teeth.

He sits back on his heels. He waits. He breathes. He waits more. There! Nothing! He feels nothing. He doesn't feel anything except completely and totally... helpless.

He tries to pull his wrists apart. The secure fasten on the bond when he tugs against it is strangely comforting, like a deep hug.

Goddammit!

He falls softly over onto his side on the fluffy bath mat. This feels nice. If he's helpless, he isn't required to do anything. He is forced to stop and be still. That's a seductive idea. He laughs at himself. A scruffy lock of hair falls across his eyes. He blows it away.

He's such an idiot. What was he thinking? Of course he likes this.

 _'Go on!  What are you so afraid of? You deserve to relax every once in a while,'_ his hormone soaked teenage lizard brain encourages.   _'Try it. Just explore it a little. You're already here.'_

Yeah. He's tied down. He's not going anywhere. He doesn't have to worry about if he should be practicing his serve right that second. He doesn't have to worry about if he should be studying right that second. He doesn't have to worry about his chores. He doesn't have to worry about talking to people or what they think of him. He doesn't have to worry about what's going on between him and his childhood best friend. He doesn't have to worry about life.

That's good, so very good.

His breathing evens and slows, like it does right when he's on the edge of sleep. He lets himself just be the sound and feel of that for a while. A breath in is the sound of a wave flowing backwards, saying ‘Shhh...’ and the feel of it pulling back out to sea. A breath out is the murmur of a wave breaking, and the feel of it crashing against itself. He closes his eyes and lets himself fall spiraling downward deeper, deeper, deeper into it until he feels like he is at the bottom of a well. He is nameless and without a face, and that is completely fine.

He pulls at the bond again. It still gives him the same feeling as an embrace. He hadn't really realized what a weight all the responsibilities he takes on carry until he allowed himself to lift them.

Clasped like he's praying, he puts his hands behind his head. That's good too. He's open in front now; exposed and vulnerable even though he has all of his clothes on. It's exactly what he wants. He slides his bound hands as far down between his shoulders as they will go. His body pulls tight as a bowstring.

Fuck. Yes.

If only Tsukishima was there to take advantage, just slide his hand down into the gap the crests of his hips are making between the front of his jeans and his stomac--

"Tadashi?" his grandfather calls from downstairs.

He startles out of his reverie. They weren't supposed to be home for at least another hour.

"Yeah, Pops?" he asks and tries not to sound guilty.

"Tsukishima's here. Didn't you notice?"

"Oh, God, no," he groans quietly into the pink bath mat, curling in on himself. "Why?"

Why's Tsukishima feel the need to come over unannounced all the time recently? Why's he always letting himself in with the spare key under the doormat and puttering around the kitchen like he owns the place? Why can't he call beforehand like a normal human being? Why can't he knock? He is magnificently spoiled. That's why.

Yamaguchi struggles to his knees. The fact that his wrists are bound affects his balance. He tips right over. Luckily, he knows how to roll break his fall. Thank God he was thrown to the ground for no discernible reason so many times as a child!

"Shit tits!" he swears when he hits the tile floor.

Unsurprisingly, it hurts. The pain is world narrowing. He bites down on his lip and whimpers. For a moment he fears he has seriously fucked up his shoulder. There go the countless tedious hours of work on his serve. Poof! He rolls over onto his side and rolls his shoulder. There's no pain in the joint when he moves it. He's fine. He'll probably just have deep bruising.

His wrists are killing him. He holds them up to his face. The plastic has cut into them and they're bleeding a  bit. Gross! But, nothing to be deeply concerned about. Good thing he's wearing long sleeves!

Tsukishima decides this would be a good time to come to the door and ask, "What the hell are you doing in there?"

 _'Invite him in,'_ his lizard brain suggests.   _'If you apologized sincerely enough maybe you would get what you want. Say it. Say, 'I'm sorry, Tsukki. I did a bad thing. Please help me. Please don't tell anyone. I don't mean to be a pervert. I just can't help myself. Forgive me. I'll do anything.''_

"What the actual fuck, self?" he whispers into the carpet.

Then he lifts his head and barks, "Boundaries, Tsukki!"

"You're one to talk," Tsukishima accuses, affronted, but through the crack under the door Yamaguchi can see his socked feet slink away.

Yamaguchi calls after him, "Wait downstairs."

"I'll be in your room," Tsukishima answers.

...his room, which is upstairs. Yamaguchi doesn't argue further. He lets his head flop to the bath mat. He wonders where his Swiss army knife went. He looks around for it. He doesn't see it. He searches more vigorously, flipping around not unlike a fish out of water. It isn't there.  He did not think this through.

"Balls!" he mutters. "Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic."

Tsukishima and, God forbid, his grandparents cannot see him this way. There must be something sharp in the bathroom. He climbs to his feet, slowly this time. He opens the medicine cabinet and is very careful not to look in the mirror affixed to the front of it. There isn't much in there. Resting on the shelves are a toothbrush, a half-used tube of toothpaste, an aspirin bottle, his grandfather's aftershave, a straight razor, and a toenail clipper.

He picks up the straight razor. The mirror finish of the blade shines menacingly as he flicks it open. He looks at himself in the mirror with on the door, which is alright because his face is slightly obscured by a towel. The razor blade is trembling in his bound hands.

This is easily the worst idea he has ever had. He's really going to hurt himself.  He imagines blood on the bathmat and shudders. He'll end up in the hospital then everyone and their mom will know exactly what he was doing in here. He will never live it down. The boys on the team will talk about it long after he had died of shame.

He'll try the toenail clipper instead. If that doesn't work out he'll have the panic attack he was planning on earlier. Who knows, maybe he'll even let himself have a good cry. He disallowed himself that luxury years ago. He almost forgets what it feels like.

He turns the bath mat over and rests it softly on the rubber coated underside to give it traction. Painstakingly, he works the length of plastic ribbon between the tiny gap between his wrists into the teeth of the clipper. It takes a few tries and a whole lot of creative swearing. When he gets it he pushes slowly down on the clipper. It doesn't seem like it's going to give. In desperation he presses his full weight into them.

Snip! it goes and easy as that he's free. It feels like waking up from a bad dream. Mobility is a strange sensation. He shakes his hands like he's forgotten how they work, which it sort of feels like he has. He sighs.

He throws the stupid zip-tie into the stupid waste basket and shakes the basket a little bit with his foot so the tie falls to the bottom. He pulls down his sleeves.

If Tsukishima was not over his first order of business would be to crawl immediately into bed and attempt to sleep. He steadies himself to face his friend without giving away his emotional upheaval. It feels like putting on a mask. He opens the door.

Tsukishima, he finds, is on his bed studiously de-alphabetizing his college entrance exam materials.

Rules 1-3 of dealing with Tsukishima Kei: Never let him get bored. Never let him get bored. Never let him get bored.

He kind of wants to scream. Or cry, Tsukishima told him once that the fact that society doesn't allow men to cry can be turned on its head and used like a trump card to be pulled out no more frequently than every year or so. People are so freaked out by the sight of it that they'll startle and give a crying man exactly what he wants just to make him stop. But, he doesn't know exactly what he wants.

So instead he complains, "Tsukki! Not again!"

"I'm just looking for those lecture notes," Tsukishima lies obtusely and easily with that pokerface of his because he is a menace. "The one from the other day. You know what I'm talking about?"

He's probably in love with Tsukishima. He's probably been in love with Tsukishima since he was a child. He is probably in love with him, goddammit! But, sometimes he just wants to shake him! Shake him and yell, 'Bullshit! You are the King of Bullshit!' The reason he knows he's probably in love is that he restrains himself -- except that one time at summer camp. But, he had it coming with the pity party he was throwing himself.

"Let me find them for you."

Yes, for Tsukishima he will search for things that don’t exist, simply because he is bored.  Yamaguchi sits down on the bed beside him.  He takes the papers from his hands. He turns away so Tsukishima can't see his face and starts alphabetizing them again. Tsukishima doesn't speak for a while. Yamaguchi can feel him shifting his weight through the mattress.

Tsukishima sounds bored when he declares, "One day, we're going to sit down and you're going to tell me every bad thing you've ever done, including the embarrassing or dangerous."

Yamaguchi freezes. He pulls again at his sleeves to cover the still oozing sores on his wrists. It occurs to him that they will probably keloid when they heal, leaving him with yet another set of ugly scars. His hands feel like they're shaking. They aren't, not anymore.

"You first, Tsukki," Yamaguchi counters and resumes alphabetizing.

"I didn't say we were playing now," Tsukishima enlightens him. "Besides, that's not the way the game works."

Tsukishima only makes sense to himself sometimes, and he can't seem to tell when people aren't keeping up. Then when it's pointed out he gets annoyed. In light of this, Yamaguchi changes the subject again.

"You came all the way here to tell me that, Tsukki?"

"No, I came over because I want to watch you make my tea," Tsukishima answers. "It tastes different when I make it."

Yamaguchi thinks he is kidding. He would not walk all the way over here in the cold on a whim to be taught something he already knows. That's ridiculous.

But, then Tsukishima gets up and leads the way downstairs, saying, "Well, come on. You aren't busy, are you?"

Yamaguchi follows Tsukishima. He puts the kettle on. He watches it like that will make it whistle faster. Tsukishima watches him watching the kettle from the breakfast bar with detached curiosity.

"Is there something special about that, waiting for the kettle like that?" Tsukishima asks from behind folded hands. "Is it different than other people do it?"

"It shouldn't be," Yamaguchi answers. He doesn't take his eyes off the blue flame licking the base of the kettle. "I only do it the way my mother used to."

"But do you need to wait like that?"

"Yes," Yamaguchi replies, and goes about warming the teapot in hot water. He fills it with exactly six heaped over tablespoons of loose tea, without using a net or basket to catch them, just the way his mother taught him. "She said the water should actually be boiling on the moment it fills the pot. So, you need to listen for it: the clicking sound it makes when it boils, before the kettle whistles."

The kettle clicks. He pours the water immediately into the waiting pot. They wait exactly seven minutes, during which Tsukishima asks:

"How come you wait so long? Do you think waiting makes it better?"

"No. It's because tea should be strong, and seven minutes is how long you should wait."

When it hits seven minutes, Yamaguchi pours Tsukishima's cup first, then his own.

Tsukishima doesn’t stop questioning him: "Why do you pour my tea first?"

"Because it's polite," Yamaguchi responds, and adds mentally, _'And because I respect you.'_

"There’s nothing special about the way you boil the water," Tsukishima wonders aloud. "Or the way you fill the kettle with tea leaves, or the way you pour the water into the pot, or how long you wait to pour, or the way pour, or when you put the milk in. So, what is special about it?"

"There’s nothing special about it," Yamaguchi tells him.

"No," Tsukishima argues insistently. "I’m sure there is. What’s special about this? Tell me."

"I don’t know, Tsukki," he replies, and doesn’t know why he feels like he should know.

"No. You don’t, do you?" Tsukishima peevishly agrees. "That’s too bad."

Tsukishima reaches across the counter and pulls the tea service tray toward himself. He puts honey in his own tea instead of letting Yamaguchi do it for him. Yamaguchi hates it. It isn’t like Tsukishima does it wrong or anything. But, that’s his job.

Taking his job away from him is cruel. Watching with nothing to do with hands except fiddle with his own mug, which he takes plain anyway, he feels about as useful as tits on a bowl. He hates that feeling, more than he hates hating freckles. He’ll work day and night to escape that feeling. Yamaguchi wonders if Tsukishima knows the breadth and depth of his need to be useful like everyone else.

He's just full of self-discoveries today, isn't he? He likes feeling helpless. And he wants to be used. Hah!

Lovely... Pervert! He's a pervert.

Tsukishima blows delicately on his tea. He blinks at him from behind his glasses, over the rim of his mug. Then he says:

"It's too hot. Get me some milk, would you?"

He gets the milk. He relaxes. They have their tea together in silence and all is well. Except Tsukishima's foot brushes Yamaguchi's just once under the table and he ends up thinking about it until he tells Tsukishima goodnight some hours later. But, he doesn't have any overtly perverse thoughts until the next day, which is a school day.

* * *

 

Sometimes for lunch they walk back to Tsukishima's house so people won't bother them. Yamaguchi deals with cooking because when Tsukishima attempts anything in the kitchen besides boiling water things tend to catch on fire. He spreads blueberry cream cheese on white bread to make a sandwich, which he thinks is disgusting but does anyway because Tsukishima really likes it. Tsukishima waits in the living room reading.

Tsukishima offhandedly asks, "Fetch me a glass of ice water?"

"Okay, Tsukki."

He hasn’t even shuffled the four or so steps toward the sink before Tsukishima adds:

"Use a mug instead of a glass."

"I know," Yamaguchi nods.

He could write a doctoral dissertation on the care and feeding of one Tsukishima Kei. He knows he prefers mugs to glasses in all contexts because they have handles. He, for some reason beyond Yamaguchi’s comprehension, revolts at touching food items that are hot or cold. He claims they make his hands feel dirty. However, this temperature sensitivity does not extend to non-food items.

"The one with the ojoceratops on it," Tsukishima calls in the comfortable manner one takes with family or those close to it.

"Sure, Tsukki."

That’s odd. Tsukishima usually likes to use his own mug, an ergonomically designed white one with smooth divots on either side of the handle where he rests his pinky and thumb.

Tsukishima loves the color white. Once on a field-trip to the Modern Art Museum in Tokyo Tsukishima wrote his entire reflection paper on all the different ways the artists used their brushes to lay white paint on canvases. He got the highest grade in the class.

Tsukishima does not particularly like dinosaurs. All the dino things he has are hand-me-downs from his brother, which for some reason he cannot bring himself to part with. But, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know a lot about dinosaurs. His memory is superb.

His brilliance is intimidating sometimes, unreal and frightening. What's more frightening are the moments when he mistakenly lets it show, and Yamaguchi knows that he does not try at all, at almost anything.

Yamaguchi stares into the cabinet. Three of the mugs in the cabinet have dinos on them. What he sees was are a t-rex, a velociraptor and a triceratops. After trying unsuccessfully to figure out for himself what a ojoceratops is he asks:

"How do I tell if it’s a ojoceratops?"

"You can tell because it’s less cool than torosaurus but cooler than a vagaceratops," Tsukishima needles, voice shimmering with flippant amusement.

"But what do they look like?"

"Uh… eotriceratops but bigger."

There was an unspoken duh hidden under that last comment. Yamaguchi peeks around the cabinet door expecting to catch Tsukishima on the edge of laughter. Tsukishima is not smiling but peering owlishly at him, face blank. They regarded one another silently. Yamaguchi concedes to Tsukishima:

"Yes, alright. Good to know. Do they stand on two legs or four?"

"Four. Fill it, like, one-third with ice then pour the water in. Ice, then water."

"Got it, Tsukki."

Yamaguchi puts three ice cubes in the mug with the four legged dinosaur on it. It doesn’t look like enough. He adds one of the runty half ice cubes from the edge of the tray. Then he remembers the ice will melt, throwing off the water to ice ratio so he added yet another ice cube before filling the mug with water.

After he does this he wonders if Tsukishima meant ⅓ ice before or after filling it with water. He decides it is better not to make Tsukishima wait while he stands there consumed with indecision. At least partially satisfied with his work he shuffles back across the room to deliver the mug to Tsukishima.

"Like this?"

Tsukishima doesn’t even glance up from his book. The cover reads _Functional Communication Therapy: Strategies for Ameliorating Challenging Behavior_. Yamaguchi fleetingly wonders where the hell Tsukishima picked up a book like that, even though he knows both of Tsukishima's parents are psychiatrists.

"Put it down there on the table for me."

Tsukishima gestures to the exact spot where he wants Yamaguchi to set the mug down. As soon as he does so Tsukishima shoots him a meaningful look. Except, Yamaguchi can’t read it, so he can’t figure out what's wrong. He tries adjusting the mug so that the handle is pointing toward Tsukishima instead of away from him.

This doesn’t work. Tsukishima raises his eyebrows and continues to give his a look. It’s like Tsukishima has told a joke and is waiting for him to catch up. Tsukishima tilts his head and gazes at him over the rims of his slipping glasses. Yamaguchi shifts uncomfortably under this weight for what feels like an extra year of middle school, though it isn’t really more than one blink of Tsukishima’s eyes.

"Thanks," Tsukishima says finally, and goes back to reading.

"You’re welcome," Yamaguchi replies.

Whatever the hell that just was, he really means it. Doing things for Tsukishima makes him feel nice all over, and he’s done well not to be a damn pervert about it. He’s proud of himself.

Except, as soon as Yamaguchi turns his back to get himself a drink he swears he hears Tsukishima make this indecent humming noise like something feels really good to him. Yeah, he swears he heard Tsukishima make a sound like something felt so good to him that he couldn’t help but make a noise like that. It isn’t a particularly sexual sound, just one like when, say, someone hits just the right spot giving foot rub.

It’s just a sweet, soft little sigh of a thing, barely audible: "Mm."

It stops Yamaguchi dead in his tracks.

 _'Fuck yes, Tsukki. Sigh over the things I do for you,'_ his sex soaked teenage lizard brain enthuses.   _'That's right. You enjoy them as much as I do. I know it.'_

 _'Shut up, self,'_ Yamaguchi thinks, annoyed.   _'Stop it. Don't project onto Tsukki.'_

 _'Coward!'_ the sex soaked part of his mind spits back.   _'Walk over there. Take his book from his hands, and climb into his lap. Find a way to make sure there is no space between your bodies. Do this for as long as you can. His parents don't get back until 6:00. Do not go back to school. Skip practice. You need this. You both need it. Do not make him wait any longer.'_

"Wait. Did you say something just now?" Yamaguchi asks in shock instead of taking the book from Tsukishima's hands.

He turns to glance at him. Tsukishima’s face is hidden behind his book. He doesn’t peek over it when he responds flatly:

"I said _'Thanks.'_ "

"Uh, right. Of course," Yamaguchi agrees.

Yamaguchi finishes making their lunches then excuses himself to go hide in the bathroom, and splash water on his face, and avoid looking in the mirror.

He adjusts his sleeves to make sure they're covering the marks on his wrists. He wonders what, exactly, his problem is.

He fears he may actually be losing his mind.

They eat. They walk back to school.

* * *

 

Yamaguchi avoids Tsukishima until it's time to play volleyball. He goes to practice already dressed and wearing his black warm-ups. In order to hide the marks on his wrists he doesn't take them off, or push the sleeves up. Nobody seems to notice.

Tsukishima is restless during practice. By the time they start playing their practice sets he's downright agitated.

"He’s doing it again, isn’t he?" Tsukishima mutters bitterly while they stand next to one another at the net.

"Who’s doing what, Tsukki?" Yamaguchi asks, helpfully.

"Tanaka. He’s behind me making that fucking face again."

"You mean his ‘game face’?" Yamaguchi supplies.

"Is that what he’s calling it now? Jesus." Tsukishima responds with disgust. "I don’t even have to turn around to know he’s doing it. I can feel it. I hate that stupid face. I can’t concentrate when he makes that face!"

Sugawara sets. Azumane spikes. Tsukishima is completely unready for it. Azumane's spike blows straight through Tsukishima's half-assed block.

"Dammit!" Tsukishima spits when he lands on his toes. "Another ball down because of Tanaka and his dumb face! That face is like a 4chan meme, I swear. Is he making the face? Tell me. I don’t want to look at him."

He glances over his shoulder. Tanaka looks like he's trying to shit a pinecone.

"Yep, he’s making the face," he confirms, and hardly keeps himself from laughing.

"He’s the product of inbreeding, Medusa’s intellectually disabled cousin. Except he crapped out in the genetic lotto and got the power of uncontrollable laughter, instead of the ability to turn people to stone. Is he still making the face?"

Yamaguchi glances over his shoulder again.  Tanaka's still attempting to birth the pinecone.

"He sure is," he snickers.

"Well..." Tsukishima's voice is heavy with impatience. "Tell him to stop."

This stops Yamaguchi’s laughter immediately. "What? No!"

"Fine, I’ll do it."

That will not go over well.

"Wait, wait. No. I’ll try," Yamaguchi placates. He clears his throat. He turns around. "Tanaka? Could you, um, maybe tone it down a bit, you know, with the game face?"

Tanaka finally shits that pinecone: "Tsukishima, you dickhead."

Behind him Tsukishima starts laughing like a hyena even though his back is turned to both of them. Sawamura casts them a baleful look and holds up the deck of cards he keeps in his pocket. Tsukishima stops laughing.

"We’ll behave ourselves!" Yamaguchi babbles. "Please, don’t make us play cards again. I’m so sorry."

Why is he acting like this? Why?

Between sets Yamaguchi silently scrutinizes Tsukishima, and decides it is because his dear friend has been replaced by a sex demon who was sent to punish him for sins he can’t remember committing.

Nishinoya can’t save him from this. Nobody can save him from this. It’s like the real Tsukishima used to say when he was around: life is an absurd experience, devoid of reason. He prays that the real Tsukishima is alright, wherever he is.

The replacement Tsukishima takes a long, deep swallow from his water bottle and chases the last drop from the rim with his tongue. He even drinks with swagger! Tsukishima’s so cool! Yamaguchi thinks that if he tried licking the rim of his water bottle like that he would probably just end up looking like a lizard, a freckly lizard with bad hair.

It should not, in fact, be possible to look sexy drinking from their unwieldy, oversized, mustard yellow water bottles. Yet, there Yamaguchi is bearing lone witness to the fact that incubi are _real_.

Of course, Tsukishima has the nerve to shoot him an insufferably smug look when their eyes meet. Well, frankly, Yamaguchi can't tell if it’s a smug look or chronic incurable resting bitch face, poor darling.

"What are you looking at?" Tsukishima asks, adjusting his glasses which are not in need of adjustment.

"Nothing," Yamaguchi lies.

Tsukishima blinks at him, and walks away.

 _‘Damn, Tsukki,'_ the base, lizard part of his brain, soaked in hormones, whimpers. _‘That ass!'_

He attempts to walk in the other direction. In his distraction he almost steps on a little orange fluffball.

"I’m fine!" he assures the little orange fluffball, even though it did not ask.

"Uh…" Hinata responds, head tilted to the side. "Are you checkin' out Tsukishima’s butt?"

"No," Yamaguchi lies again.

Hinata looks at Tsukishima’s ass. He looks at Yamaguchi’s face. He looks at Tsukishima’s ass again, hard.

Tsukishima bends over with his foot on the bench and starts adjusting his shoe laces. Hinata scrutinizes Tsukishima’s ass. His wheels are turning so fast Yamaguchi can practically hear the hamster that powers them panting, and smell the burning rubber.

"Woah! He’s hot," Hinata concludes as though this is some deep and terrible revelation. Then he cups his hand over his mouth and stage whispers loudly, "But… why? Why would you do that to yourself?"

 _‘Why?! That ass, you empty headed little fool! That ass!’_ Yamaguchi’s sex soaked teenage lizard brain continues creepily whispering, with an edge of hysteria. _‘That ass is so tight I bet I could bounce a coin off it! Look at that adorable, white, fluffy-fluff sweatshirt paired with those killer, tiny, black shorts. Work those shorts, Tsukki! Tie those shoes, Tsukki! Take a suspiciously long time to tie those shoes! Take all the time you need! That butt! That butt. That butt. That butt. No ifs, ands, and or butts, I like butts! I like butts! Boo to the nice boys! Praise be to butt fucking.’_

Huh.  He likes feeling helpless, he wants to be used, and yet he’s also probably a top.  As soon as he eeks out this realization he stops thinking dirty thoughts.

He chokes a sound of disgust at himself and dry sobs despondently, "Oh, Jesus Christ. I don’t even know anymore, Hinata."

Hinata completely misinterprets this, and looks really sad for him for a moment. Then Hinata attempts to comfort him with an astonishingly awkward hug. Yamaguchi’s arms are pinned to his sides and he shifts uncomfortably in Hinata’s embrace but he still can’t seem to take his eyes off Tsukishima’s goddamn shorts. He hates himself a little bit.

"It's gonna be okay," Hinata tells him, as though they're in it together, and squeezes harder. "It'll be okay!"

Hinata has a strange sense of humor.

* * *

 

They somehow make it through the remainder of practice without being threatened with the cards again. Afterward, at Hillside Mart, Yamaguchi excuses himself from the table to go search the store for new strawberry flavored snacks to squirrel away in his lunch box for Tsukishima.

He doesn’t find anything.  But, he’s not ready to go back to the rest of the team.  He idles in the snack aisle.  Kneeling down, he communes with a bag of Cheetos.  

 _‘What a lovely bag of Cheetos you are,’_ he thinks at it. _‘I bet you never had to worry about sexual self-discovery.  Let me tell you, you’re not missing much.  Being a teenager is the worst.’_

Since they're bothering him and nobody is around to look, he rolls up his sleeves.  At exactly that moment, Nishinoya bursts around the corner.

He stands over him, clearly enjoying having a height advantage for once and asks: "Wha’d he do to you?"

Yamaguchi casts a guilty look around and puts his finger to his lips to indicate that Nishinoya should, _'Please respectfully use an indoor voice.'_

"What? Who?" Yamaguchi asks.

Nishinoya pokes him, hard, right over the bruise on his shoulder. Yamaguchi knows Nishinoya is doing this purposefully, to let him know he knows it's there. He wonders when he saw it.  His world doesn’t end like he thought it would if someone found out.

"Ow! Dangit!" he complains rising to his feet and rubbing his abused shoulder.

"That’s what you get for trying to hide it," Nishinoya scolds, rudely pointing right up into his face. "If you’re going to let Tsukishima tie you up, you should at least make sure he does it right."

"We’re not dating!" Yamaguchi denies, maybe a touch too defensively.

Nishinoya sobers, "Oh. Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Why not? I'd tap that," Nishinoya encourages, frowning like he's very, very confused with Yamaguchi's life choices. "What? Are you afraid of fucking up your friendship? Like, _'We're so close. Let's do the do and ruin it!'_ "

That hadn't even occurred to Yamaguchi before. He supposes Nishinoya is right. He's never been in one but as far as he can tell relationships end in two ways: in heartbreak or in heartbreak after the other dies. The best way to get out of a relationship is to croak.

"I don't think we think of one another in the same way," Yamaguchi has no idea why he admits this.

"He flirts with you constantly," Nishinoya informs him, flirtatiously throwing his arm over his shoulder.

He has to stand on his tiptoes to accomplish this. He still smells like orange peel soap and hair product and boy. Yamaguchi doesn't acknowledge Nishinoya's embrace, but he doesn't throw him off either. He shrugs and really feels Nishinoya's weight as he does so. Nishinoya is heavier than he looks, and warmer too.

"He doesn't," Yamaguchi denies again. "That's just how we interact."

"You're clueless," Nishinoya laughs darkly. "I practically had to lick your face before you realized I was flirting with you."

Nishinoya sticks his tongue out, says, "Ahhhh..." and, as though to demonstrate, puts his face right up next to Yamaguchi's.

"Please don't lick my face," Yamaguchi begs, wincing.

Nishinoya kisses him on the cheek instead, and before he can react asks, "If he didn't do it, who did?"

Yamaguchi flicks the corner of a bag of chips, and mumbles, "I did it to myself."

"You did what," he responds flatly.

Nishinoya's bubble has burst. Yamaguchi doesn't have to look at him to know he's displeased and sort of disappointed. In the silence Yamaguchi notices that the dinner conversation they’re missing out on at the table where the rest of the team is sitting, just on the other side of the row of chips, is a doozy.

"Your parents know you’re gay. Right, Tsukishima?" Yamaguchi hears Hinata inquire, gravely.

"My number on the Kinsey scale is imaginary," Tsukishima corrects.

Somewhere in the store, Sugawara titters at Tsukishima's joke. Every once in a while, when he thinks something is really funny, he has a startlingly loud laugh. Nobody at the table with Tsukishima seems to get it.

"That’s dangerous, you know," Nishinoya lectures, voice low, not seeming to hear what's going on with the rest of the team. "Doing that alone is dangerous."

Well he knows that now, doesn't he? Yamaguchi doesn't say this. He instead pretends to be very absorbed in examining the nutritional label on a jar of salsa even though he’s fifteen years old and has never read a nutritional label with any seriousness before in his life. It’s like a book-off, with food.

Nishinoya doesn’t take the hint. He grabs Yamaguchi’s wrist and examines it. Yamaguchi submits to this but looks determinedly in the other direction. He wonders if this is how Tsukishima felt when he first started following him around.

"Wha’d you use, a zip-tie?" Nishinoya asks, but sounds certain, and doesn’t wait for a response. "If you have to do it again, put a piece of cloth down under it to distribute the pressure so you don’t cut off circulation. And don’t put it over your joints. And text me first."

"Excuse me?" Yamaguchi shrills, and drops the jar of salsa.

Nishinoya, athletic genius that he is, catches it with his free hand without looking.

"In other news, am I the only straight person on this team?" Yamaguchi hears Tanaka ask on the other side of the chip wall. He sounds like his mouth is full. Yamaguchi imagines his face is covered in breadcrumbs because it probably is. "Let’s sew matching rainbow patches on our uniforms already. We’ll be the Karasuno Volleyball Club slash Gay Straight Alliance. We’ll strike fear into the hearts of homophobes, and our rivals, and our homophobic rivals. What are the chances even, of that?"

"Wait a second," Nishinoya holds up the salsa jar as though to say, _‘Stop, listen.'_ "Are you hearing this shit?"

Yamaguchi nods and silently mouths, ‘Yeah.’  They both pause to eavesdrop for some reason, even though they would be welcomed into the conversation if they just walked a few steps. Nishinoya puts the salsa down gingerly.

The table is quiet for a long moment.

Tsukishima finally answers, "The chances of experiencing same sex attraction are about one in ten, if you ignore biology. So, it's one in ten million. But you shouldn't ignore biology because each additional older brother increases the odds of a man being gay by 33%."

Tanaka argues disbelievingly, "No way, man. You did not just do those odds in your head."

"No, I wrote it down. Point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero one. See?"

"Holy shit," Nishinoya marvels beside him, and pulls him closer for some reason.

"He really likes math," Yamaguchi explains needlessly, and shifts under his weight.

 _'Swoon,'_ Yamaguchi's sex soaked lizard brain sighs.   _'Talk nerdy to me, Tsukki! I could totally get off to you correcting me on my homework. Wait! Scratch that. I do get off to you correcting me on my homework. Wicked smart. Sharp as a knife. Dangerous intelligence. Yes. Yes. Yes. A million times yes. Choirs of angels singing,'fuck, yes!''_

"I wish he wasn't so stingy about helping people with their homework," Nishinoya mumbles.

"See what you do when you try," Tanaka praises like he's the mama bird, and Tsukishima is the baby bird he has adopted and is very concerned about.

Yamaguchi is reminded that he is not the only person in the world who sees Tsukishima's potential and is astonished by it.

Tsukishima responds to Tanaka the same way he responds to everyone who tries to push him toward achieving all he can, "Shuddup, Tanaka-senpai."

The table is quiet for another long moment.

"So how’d you come out, Tsukishima?" Hinata asks again.

"Don’t ask him for advice, Hinata," Kageyama grumbles.

"Come out? I didn’t. I won’t," Tsukishima responds. "Why’s it have to be a ceremony?"

Hinata is relentless once he gets an idea in his head: "Yeah, but what did you tell your folks when they asked?"

"No one has ever asked me if I’m gay, Hinata. Not once. They’ve always assumed there’s something much worse going on with me. They’re afraid to hear the answer."

That’s sad but true. Yamaguchi and Nishinoya laugh quietly. It feels conspiratorial.

"Huh," Hinata responds.

"Why do gay people want to be normal?" Tsukishima rambles, somehow sounding completely disinterested even in his own speech. Yamaguchi imagines him examining his cuticles while he’s talking. "As far as I can tell gay people used to use their wit for fighting words. They didn’t posture ridiculously, placating bigots by saying they’re fighting for the right to have heteronormative family values pushed upon them."

"There you have it, folks," Tanaka cuts in. "Tsukishima is above the very concept of family values."

"Yes, actually. I am," Tsukishima quips. "But, that’s not my point."

"What is your point?" Kageyama mutters.

"Top or bottom? Gay or straight?" Tsukishima continues. "What is it, a political statement? It depends. It’s amazing to me the seriousness that these questions are asked with. That’s all. I just don’t know why everybody takes it all so seriously."

"That is such a Tsukishima thing to say," Nishinoya smiles.

"Yup," Yamaguchi sighs.

Suddenly, Tsukishima peeks over the top of the aisle. He has to part some chip bags to see them. Only his bespectacled gold eyes and his halo of blonde curls are visible.

"What do you two think you’re doing lurking over here?" he asks, unimpressed with them.

Yamaguchi feels like they've been caught in the act of doing something wrong, even though all they've been doing is talking. Nishinoya grabs a bag of chips off the nearest shelf and as far up into Tsukishima’s face as he can, which isn’t very far. Tsukishima gives him the stink-eye anyway.

"Chips! Yum!" the libero grins stupidly even though he is not stupid.

Tsukishima squints at them like wants them to know he knows they aren’t talking about _‘Chips! Yum!’_ and that he cannot be bothered to call them on it. He disappears back behind the row.

"Anyway, I just mean to say," Nishinoya picks the conversation right up where they left off before breaking to eavesdrop. "If you really need to tie yourself up, you should text me so if a certain amount of time passes and I don’t hear from you I can come make sure you’re okay. But, seriously, don’t do that to yourself again."

"I’m sorry," Yamaguchi mumbles at his feet, thoroughly ashamed of himself.

 _'Stupid teenage lizard brain,'_ he thinks, mournfully.

He wonders if Tsukishima is listening in to their conversation. He wouldn’t put it past him. He’s the sort of person who finds it amusing to walk around with his headphones unplugged so he can pick up dirt on other people. That is how he heard the tidbit about Kageyama hating to be called King, after all.

"Don’t be sorry," Nishinoya grins his toothy grin. "Treat me to another pork bun."

Nishinoya releases him and punches him on the arm, right over his stupid, ugly bruise. The places where their bodies were touching somehow feel too cold and too light. Yamaguchi pulls the sleeves of his warm-ups down so they’re almost covering his fingers. He finds a strawberry lollipop on a revolving display by the check out. He buys it, and he buys Nishinoya another pork bun.

* * *

 

On the walk home Tsukishima gives him several odd sidelong glances, like he believes Yamaguchi can't see him under the cover of darkness. But, the moon is big in the sky and it is quite easy to see Tsukishima's pale face.

Yamaguchi thinks he is looking at him like he's suddenly become a puzzle Tsukishima is having a great deal of difficulty figuring out. When Yamaguchi calls him on it he denies that he was looking at him in the first place. It's quiet like interacting with a small child who has spilled their juice on the floor and denies their knowledge of the existence of the juice in the first place.   _'Spilled juice? What juice?' 'Strange looks? What looks?'_

He feels Tsukishima looking at him again as they're nearing the playground where Yamaguchi first saw Tsukishima, years ago, when they were children.

"What?" he asks and pulls at his sleeves again.

"Stop it," Tsukishima huffs.

He worries that Tsukishima will push his sleeves up and examine the scabs on his wrists the way Nishinoya did. "Stop what?"

"Stop worrying," Tsukishima demands.

Yamaguchi lies, "I’m not worrying."

"Are you breathing?"

"Yes, Tsukki," Yamaguchi responds.

Tsukishima sticks his hand in his face as if to check that this is true. Yamaguchi blows on it so as to provide proof.

"Then you’re worrying," Tsukishima contends. "You’re like a jumpy, old grandma with the tenacity of a bulldog. Stop it. Whatever you’re worrying about, don’t."

"Hm," Yamaguchi acknowledges and turns his head to hide his smile.

Tsukishima just called him tenacious. He’s flattered.

"I heard once," Tsukishima offers. "You can stop obsessive thoughts if you make a list."

Yamaguchi knows somehow from the way he says it, like he’s sharing a secret, that Tsukishima didn’t hear that just anywhere. He probably heard it in the psychotherapy sessions his parents drag him to every Wednesday before practice. Yamaguchi thinks it is the best thing they've ever done for him. Tsukishima disagrees. Of course, he's never heard that first hand from Tsukishima but he doesn't really need to ask.

Yamaguchi shrugs. He wishes it was that easy.

"No?" Tsukishima asks. "Let's try this."

Tsukishima suddenly takes him by the sleeve. Yamaguchi startles. Tsukishima gives him a weird look somewhere between a stinkeye and _'What the hell?'_ then pulls him into the park.

They stop in the darkness of the shadows of the inside of the fence surrounding the playground. Yamaguchi shifts uncomfortably. Tsukishima lets him.

"What--"

Tsukishima interrupts, "Take these."

He gently fits his headphones over Yamaguchi’s head. They transmit Tsukishima’s body heat to his cold ears. Tsukishima adjusts them for him so they’re sitting perfectly, then presses play. Music lights up around him on all sides. The sound is rich and velvety.

_‘Her name is Noel. I have a dream about her. She rings my bell. I got gym class in half an hour. Oh, how she rocks in Keds and tube socks. But, she doesn't know who I am. And she doesn’t give a damn about me.'_

Tsukishima’s taste in rock music is immaculate. Tsukishima likes to joke that Yamaguchi has impeccable taste in terrible music. That’s not true. They have very similar taste. Yamaguchi thinks he’s probably the only peer Tsukishima has ever met who can counter his musical opinions. Yamaguchi has his grandfather's record collection to thank for that, though his knowledge stops in the mid-80’s.

"Who is this?" Yamaguchi asks, to break Tsukishima’s strange silence.

"This is Wheatus, philistine," Tsukishima responds, note of wry humor in his light voice, and starts to walk away backwards with the cord of the headphones still attached to the iPhone he’s holding.

 _’Cos I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby. Yeah. I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby. Listen to Iron Maiden, maybe, with me?'_  the headphones sing, and the thrum of the electric guitar ripples down his spine.

The long cord runs out of slack. Tsukishima doesn't stop backing away. Yamaguchi follows several paces after. He likes the way pulling back slightly on the taut wire feels. It cuts right through his anxiety. Tsukishima stops.

"Don’t pull the wire," Tsukishima scolds, and at the same time with a little flick of his wrist he tugs so violently at the wire that the headphones almost come flying off Yamaguchi’s head. "I’ll be pissed if you break it."

Tsukishima tugs again. Yamaguchi sticks the headphones to his head by throwing his hands over his ears and pressing down. Mischief sparks in Tsukishima's eyes. He drags Yamaguchi around the swing set and through the monkey bars.

 _‘Man, I feel like mold. It’s prom night and I am lonely. Lo and behold, she’s walking over to me. This must be fake. My lip starts to shake...’_  the headphones sing more loudly to Yamaguchi as Tsukishima turns up the volume, and he’s dizzy.

"You can't imagine the unforgivable things I'll be forced to do to you if you bust my nice headphones, Yamaguchi," Tsukishima threatens over the music.

Tsukishima’s innocent smile is so false as to be lewd.

Tsukishima pulls them into the light of a street lamp and, pronouncing each word carefully as though he thinks Yamaguchi is having difficulty understanding, tells him, "You really cannot imagine."

Tsukishima's gait slows. Tsukishima holds his gaze, and Yamaguchi can't seem to bring himself to break it. Tsukishima turns the music off. Tsukishima spins him around carefully, like a person trying to break a skittish horse. The only sound is the mulch crunching under their feet. Tsukishima stops.

He starts reeling him in inch by inch with the wire, by draping it over the fingers of one hand and pulling his phone down with the other. Yamaguchi does his best not to invade Tsukishima's personal space. He leans forward until he’s bent in half in the middle.

He bows to Tsukishima, and he enjoys it. Right as he’s about to lose his balance and stumble forward, Tsukishima releases him. Tsukishima clicks his tongue as if to say, _‘Come on now...'_ As soon as he rights himself Tsukishima starts tugging again. Yamaguchi closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath.

Goddammit.

This is making him hard. He shouldn’t let Tsukishima continue teasing him like this. It’s dangerous. He wants to step forward, and kiss him. Just a taste, he just wants one little taste.

 _'Do it!'_ every single part of brain, base and logical, tells him. _'He wants you, moron. Move your feet. Go!'_

He's too scared.

"Tsukki, don't," Yamaguchi warns.

"Don’t what?"

The tugging stops. They blink, then search the park for something they can pretend to find more interesting than one another.

Tsukishima abruptly changes the subject, "Hey, about that favor from the other day…"

Tsukishima pauses. He fiddles with his glasses, which are not in need of adjustment.

"Yeah?" Yamaguchi prompts, pulse shivering light and quick.

Tsukishima switches the music back on. The drums and the electric guitar cut out. The headphones sing softly, _‘How does she know who I am? And why does she give a damn about...'_

"I need you to listen to some songs for me, and tell me what you think the theme is. What’s this one about?" Tsukishima asks in the manner of a tutor asking a child a question.

A young woman sings the chorus, with a sickening bitter sweetness this time, and Yamaguchi feels it in his blood, _‘I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, maybe. Come with me Friday. Don’t say maybe. I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby. Like you.'’_

"This is a love song, Tsukki," Yamaguchi replies sheepishly.

He studies the moths that batter their bodies against the yellow bulb of street lamp that’s bathing them in a pool of light, like two actors on a stage, instead of staring back at Tsukishima.

Tsukishima pulls the small moleskine notebook he’s been carrying around out of his pocket and scribbles down a note. Tsukishima is weird. Yamaguchi likes Tsukishima’s weird. He likes it too much. It hurts. Tsukishima puts his phone and the notebook back in his pocket, and without further comment walks away. Yamaguchi allows himself to be himself be lead by the wire the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I don't even know anymore, with this fic.
> 
> The pace picks up after this chapter. Tsukishima is testing his boundaries. I hope that was clear.
> 
> I'm [winplaceshow](http://winplaceshow.tumblr.com/post/104215576806/okay-i-know-that-everyone-who-ships-tsukkiyama) on tumblr if you want to shout at me about HQ.


	4. It's Like Playing Fetch

During a water break at practice, Tsukishima sniffs like the air itself is offending him. He looks at Yamaguchi in confusion. He sniffs again. Yamaguchi locks onto the stink. It seems to be emanating from Nishinoya, who has taken his sneakers off.

Tsukishima is appalled: "Noya-senpai, your feet smell like a cave filled with bats with bad hygiene."

Tanaka is sitting silently on the floor next to Nishinoya with his t-shirt pulled up over his nose like he prefers the smell of his own B.O. to that of Nishinoya's feet. The rest of the team has wandered to the other side of the room, for good reason. Yamaguchi doesn't know what a cave filled with bad hygiene smells like, but the description might just be accurate. Nishinoya responds to Tsukishima's remark by teasing his sock off slowly, like he's in a burlesque act. He whips the sock at Tsukishima's face. It just barely misses.

"Cram it, Tsukishima," he mutters.

He does not appear to be in a good mood today. Tanaka goofily reaches out and gives him big purposefully awkward pats, apparently in an effort to comfort him for being so very stinky. Nishinoya allows this, but he doesn't look happy about it.

The sock thing really gets Tsukishima going. Nishinoya is the only person on the team who is capable of getting Tsukishima going purposefully instead of by simply existing. Yamaguchi can't even do that, not that he wants to. He's only met three people other than Nishinoya who can: Akiteru, Kuroo, and Bokuto. Then again, Nishinoya's also the only other person on the team that Tsukishima plays around with, instead of barely tolerating or silently respecting. Yamaguchi thinks they like each other.

"How can someone so small smell so bad?" Tsukishima asks Yamaguchi flatly, as though Nishinoya can't hear them.

Yamaguchi starts laughing. Nishinoya shoots him a look like he is the very lowest of traitors but his feet really do smell, so Yamaguchi keeps right on laughing.

With no further provocation Nishinoya launches himself at Tsukishima. The gut punch Nishinoya throws Tsukishima is no joke. It misses as closely at the sock did. Yamaguchi, who jumps away with explosive reflexes born of years of dodging fights, thinks the barely wide punch was purposeful, that it was a warning shot. Tsukishima genuinely startles, and stumbles back right along side him.

“Woah! The hell, Noya-senpai?” he exclaims.

Nishinoya's ego is usually untouchable. But, sometimes Yamaguchi thinks it's a defense mechanism. There's a quality to it that's familiar to him somehow, like it's something Nishinoya needed to learn for self-preservation in much the same way Yamaguchi needed to learn to keep a low profile. Nishinoya has dark days, days where nobody can do anything right by him. Not often, but he has them.

Tanaka says that he has a temper because he's impulsive. Yamaguchi thinks Tanaka is full of shit. He is sure there is something going on in Nishinoya's home that Tanaka keeps quiet about. He suddenly feels sick and awful for laughing, and for his personal joke that Nishinoya is being raised by animals.

Azumane is on top of them in a blink. He scoops Nishinoya up and throws him over his shoulder like it's nothing. The reason it looks so easy for Azumane, Yamaguchi speculates, is probably because he's had years of practice.

"Put me down," Nishinoya snarls and kicks like a man possessed, and Azumane almost drops him. "He has it coming and you know it."

Azumane holds holds Nishinoya's flailing legs down with one arm, and rubs his back awkwardly by reaching around behind with the other.

He soothes worriedly, "Yuu, you're fine."

It occurs to Yamaguchi that Azumane is so caught up in comforting Nishinoya that he doesn't realize he's called him by his given name. He wonders just what their deal is, and he blushes for them, and for his own embarrassment for being complicit in sparking this outburst. Yamaguchi wonders if Azumane feels about Nishinoya the way he feels about Tsukishima. Tsukishima stares dumbly, as does the rest of the team. Azumane flips Nishinoya over and holds him in his arms like a child.

Nishinoya does not take kindly to this. He struggles and informs Azumane on no uncertain terms that he should, "Get bent!"

"Hey," Azumane catches Nishinoya's attention with a queasy smile. "I like you even if you're smelly."

This stops Nishinoya cold. For a moment, he is quiet and still, gazing emptily down at his hands in his lap. He looks very young, and very tired. Yamaguchi feels like he is watching something intimate, indiscreetly. He looks instead at the clock. Thirty more minutes left to practice.

"You'd better still like me when I'm smelly," Nishinoya mutters.

"You wanna go outside?" Azumane suggests uncertainty.

Nishinoya bites his lips, and stares down at the floor, and nods.

Azumane's searching eyes ask Sawamura permission to leave.

Sawamura is too pissed to respond.

“Yeah,” Sugawara nods in Sawamura's place.

Nishinoya lets Azumane princess carry him, shoeless and with only one sock, out of the gym. When the door shuts behind them the team starts breathing again. Only then does Yamaguchi realize his arm is thrown back against Tsukishima, as though to protect him or keep him from being dragged forward into a fight with Nishinoya. He steps away from Tsukishima, and studies the floor.

"Well, that escalated quickly," Tanaka declares, with his goddamn shirt still pulled up over his nose.

Nobody laughs. Even Takeda-sensei is miffed.

"I'm sorry," Tsukishima offers quietly before anyone else can speak. He looks for all the world like he does not give a shit but he's blushing. He adjusts his glasses, which are not in need of adjustment. "I'll be running laps around the school, then."

Yamaguchi doesn't follow. He wishes he could explain to everyone that Tsukishima really is sorry for once, and that he would never purposefully hurt anyone... in a bad way, or at least in a way they could not handle. Everyone is entitled to their defense mechanisms after all. But, he thinks he would sound like a madman if said any of that aloud. So, he keeps it to himself and watches Hinata carry Nishinoya's stray sock and his sneakers to him like they're biohazardous materials.

* * *

After practice, Tsukishima and Yamaguchi clean up alone together in silence. Everyone else goes on ahead to Hillside Mart. This is their continuing punishment. They deserve it. He accepts this fact like he accepts most things, dutifully and without complaint. He neatly wraps the nets and carries them to the supply closet.

A volleyball falls from Tsukishima’s fingers and skitters across the court. Yamaguchi glances over at him. He’s taking an awfully long time to pick the balls up.

For days, Tsukishima has been uncharacteristically clumsy. Yamaguchi hopes he isn’t coming down with something. He always becomes absentminded when he is about to get sick. At the same time, he sort of hopes he is coming down with something, just so he has an excuse to coddle him. He feels sort of bad about that, but he is coming to realize he lives to spoil this boy. He just wants to make him rotten. More rotten. The most rotten.

Tsukishima pauses. He looks forlornly at the ball. It’s adorable. Well, Yamaguchi would describe the look on Tsukishima’s face as adorable or forlorn. He bets almost anyone else would describe it as alarmingly blank, or obstinate. Tsukishima turns his blank, obstinate, adorable, forlorn look on Yamaguchi.

Without thinking, Yamaguchi puts the net he is holding down, chases after the ball, scoops it up, and runs back to Tsukishima. He’s not entirely sure why he does this instead of putting the ball back in the bin where it belongs. But, that’s what he does.

When he places the ball in Tsukishima’s grasp Tsukishima responds by saying, “Nine.”

It is very bizarre, even for Tsukishima.

Nervously Yamaguchi asks, “Nine what?”

Tsukishima begins playing with the ball, tossing it up and down, up and down, following its rise and fall with his gaze.

“Guess,” he demands.

“Is that the time?” Yamaguchi ventures.

He knows he is wrong but it is all he has to go on.

“No. Practice ends at 7:30. It just ended. You know that.”

“Nine,” Yamaguchi echos. “Nine… I don’t know. Tell me?”

Tsukishima holds the volleyball against his head and does a fantastic impression of a long suffering sigh. “We’ve been playing fetch for the past two days. Didn’t you notice?”

At this, crystalline shards of adrenaline shiver electric down his veins. His heart clatters against his ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. His heart might have the right idea. He doesn’t bolt, like his heart is telling him to. No, he stands there dumbstruck.

“Excuse me?” he manages, without his voice cracking to humiliate him further.

“We’ve been playing fetch,” Tsukishima repeats like it mildly annoys him to do so. “See, I have this theory that you subconsciously want to be my pet.”

And there it is… the jig is up.

The way he says the word _'pet'_ , neatly, aspiration on the _'t'_ savored, sends a thrill racing through Yamaguchi right down to his fingertips. He concentrates on pretending his breathing is even and calm.

“...You know, like, you want it really bad. You’re thirsty for it. I’m gathering evidence,” Tsukishima informs him, features composed but eyes flashing with impish enthusiasm. He starts toying with the volleyball again, bouncing it off the floor. “I started counting the times when I drop something, and you run to pick it up. That makes nine times out of ten. It’s fun. Like I said, it’s like playing fetch.”

Mortification falls so heavily upon Yamaguchi that he feels bloodless, a stone. Heat creeps up in his cheeks. Once again he is glad for his complexion, and freckles, which mostly conceal his blushes. Still, he feels the need to cover his face with his hands. He doesn’t resist. He hides.

He groans, “Tsukki, what? Why would you do that?”

“Mm… because by now I’m pretty sure you enjoy it,” Tsukishima responds, somehow sounding both derisive and self-amused.

Yamaguchi hopes Tsukishima does not list the number of ways in which his assessment is accurate. He loves making Tsukishima’s tea with two lumps of sugar and milk on the side because his capricious taste varies by the day. He loves hunting through grocery stores for new strawberry flavored snacks to squirrel away in his lunchbox and share with Tsukishima when he invariably asks to try them. He loves helping Tsukishima pack his bag after school, and during matches, knowing just where things go, just how to fold each item. He loves being the loudest to cheer Tsukishima from the bench, declaring his allegiance for God and everyone to hear.

The only part where Tsukishima is wrong is his conjecture that it is subconscious. At this point Yamaguchi is well aware. He takes far more pleasure in it than is reasonable. It makes him feel giddy. It makes him feel like he’s floating. It _gets him off_ and he is so, very ashamed of himself.

“If I dropped it again you’d want to go and get it for me, right?”

Yamaguchi forces himself to ease his hands down from his face.

“No,” he lies, staring down at his toes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh… I see.”

Tsukishima sounds awfully disappointed. Still Yamaguchi is relieved that Tsukishima is dropping the topic, for the time being. He feels like he can breathe again. He relaxes, and slinks away. He’s got to find a way to get out of there. No swift movements, Tsukishima can smell fear.

The ‘pet’ of, Tsukishima Kei, the Holy Terror, Prince of the Stinkeye, King of the Mindfuck, the kid the girls want, the teachers are confounded by, and the other boys envy, he doesn’t even know where to start with that one. He’s never actually allowed himself to give serious thought to what that sort of relationship would look like. As much as he likes taking care of Tsukishima, frankly, when he puts it that way the idea is sort of terrifying.

He picks the net up again.

Tsukishima bounces the ball so hard that it makes a resounding crack when it hits the floor.

Yamaguchi flinches. The sound echoes through the gymnasium and sends goosebumps prickling over his skin. His attention snaps over his shoulder to Tsukishima, who has quit playing with the ball and is holding it up to his face, peering over it owlishly.

Tsukishima _smiles_ at him.

The air is sucked from the room. Yamaguchi lets his gaze waver to the exit sign to his left. He thinks maybe he’s about to be eaten alive.

 _‘Run away, dumbass!’_ his body tells him, like he is a rabbit in the presence of a predator.

He resists. He studies the net in his arms.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Tsukishima asks, barest hint of sweetness in his muffled voice.

Tsukishima can get anything out of him when he uses that tone. Though he doesn’t use it often. That’s fighting dirty, after all.

“Mn,” he hums non-committally, hugs the net to his chest, and is glad his back is turned to Tsukishima.

His grandmother tells him to be careful what he wishes for, and he always thought that was sort of stupid. He understands now. He makes a note never to quarrel with her ever again.

“Look at me,” Tsukishima says, and it isn’t a request or a suggestion but it isn’t quite a command either.

This is hard. He wants to continue looking at the net. He manages to turn around and meet Tsukishima’s level gaze by putting an edge of belligerence to his own.

 _‘Why? Why?’_ he asks himself. _‘Why?’_

Tsukishima’s previous answer doesn’t satisfy him. Then he remembers, there is no reason with Tsukishima sometimes. Tsukishima is two things. He is beautiful and he is cruel.

Still he asks, “Why are you doing this again?”

“‘Cause you like it,” is Tsukishima’s blunt and immediate reply. Four masterful little words place all of the blame on Yamaguchi and give Tsukishima plausible deniability. Lowering the ball from his face he continues, enunciating slowly, and clearly, like he thinks Yamaguchi might have trouble understanding, “And ‘cause I’m curious how far I can take that.”

His life is over.

He laughs nervously, “Very funny, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima is unmoved by Yamaguchi’s laughter. “I’m being honest with you. Be honest with me. Did you lie just now?”

“Yes,” Yamaguchi confesses at the same time as he mournfully thinks, _‘I am depraved.’_

Tsukishima studies him with a little pout on his face. “So, you _do_ get satisfaction out of picking things up for me.”

Yamaguchi knows he shouldn’t give Tsukishima more ammunition.

“Mmhm,” he shamefully agrees anyway like he just can’t help himself, which apparently he cannot.

He wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole. He is going to prove that people can die of shame. All he needs is a nice quiet hole to crawl into and wait for death to take him.

Tsukishima enthuses at Yamaguchi’s reaction, “You look embarrassed. I hope I don’t drop the ball again. That would be mean.”

“Don’t,” Yamaguchi warns.

He says that, but it occurs to him that he is going have to put his hand over his mouth to stifle Tsukishima’s name when he moans it in the shower later. Tsukishima must _never_ know what goes on in his shower. He must _never, ever_ know. Yamaguchi feels the sort of dirty you can’t wash off.

But he wonders, if he really didn’t want Tsukishima to know, would still be standing there taking this? It doesn’t make any sense. He mourns the continual fact that there is not medication for teenage boy hormones.

Tsukishima drops the ball. They both watch it roll away. Yamaguchi does not pick it up.

He wants to.

“Oops, my bad,” Tsukishima apologizes, but he doesn’t sound sorry.

Yamaguchi bites back a whimper. It feels good. Watching Tsukishima be a prick feels so nice. Tsukishima might as well be holding him against the wall and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. That’s how good he feels. No, it feels better than he imagines that would feel. Screw sweet nothings. He’ll take the derisive barbs, please and thank you.

There isn’t any question anymore. He knows he’s a masochist. He knows it will always be a fixed and permanent component of his sexuality. Perhaps the way in which it manifests will change with him as he grows older. Perhaps it will wax and wane depending on his partner. Perhaps it bleeds over into his identity as an individual. Perhaps it does not.

He’s sure of one thing. It is part of him and it will always will be. That’s why he’s still standing with Tsukishima. It is the only possible reason.

“Huh,” Yamaguchi croaks despondently at this realization.

The ball rolls to a stop.

Relatedly, the urge to please Tsukishima is markedly stronger when Tsukishima highlights it. That is very, very dangerous. If nothing else this has been an enlightening experience. But, really he should leave, before something bad happens.

Yamaguchi sputters, “Excuse me now, please, Tsukki. I gotta go… I got-- I gotta-- Uh… I can’t.”

 _‘Smooth,’_ he mocks himself.

“Hold up,” Tsukishima says. “Are you safewording?”

Yamaguchi doesn’t answer.

“I’m taking that as a ‘no,’” Tsukishima informs him. “This is one of the very few situations where silence means consent.”

This is probably a good time to go searching for a hole where he can curl up and die. A secluded place under some shrubbery might even do. There are some bushes in the school yard and it’s a pretty night. Yes, that will do nicely. He lets the net fall to the floor, not particularly concerned if it becomes tangled, and barely keeps himself from breaking out into a full sprint as he exits the gym.

“Okay. Alright,” Tsukishima bargains as he reaches the door. He almost sounds unsure of himself. That stops Yamaguchi cold. There’s uncertainty wavering under Tsukishima’s airy voice when he says, “Fetch it for me.”

Yamaguchi sighs. What has gotten into Tsukishima today?  He really doesn’t know when to let up. Yamaguchi pulls the door open.

 _‘Sweet freedom!’_ he thinks as he gets a facefull of crisp fall air. He hopes Tsukishima won’t bring whatever the hell just happened up in homeroom in the morning.

But then, as the door is about to snap shut behind him, Tsukishima tells him, conversationally, like he’s saying _‘I’ll get that door for you’_ :

“...and I’ll kiss you.”

Yamaguchi is tempted.  
  
He wonders if he is not, in fact, a masochist but merely self-destructive.

Then his mind spins off uncontrollably into a rant, _‘Enough of this bullshit! Of course this is the way you behave when you want to ask me out. Of course it is! Must be nice having such a pretty face, Tsukki! Must be nice to have such quick wit, Tsukki! Must be nice to use them to get away with murder, Tsukki! Dammit, Tsukki! Dammit.’_

When he’s worn himself down, what Tsukishima is saying, has been trying to say for quite some time now, catches up with him. It knocks the air out of him. What fucking dweebs they are. What fucking dorks, chasing each other in circles! He wonders when it first started. He cannot recall. Maybe they’ve always been like this.

It feels like what is coming to pass between them is a fixed event in time and space, woven into the fabric of the universe, and has been waiting always, impatiently for them to catch up to it. It feels like whatever is about to happen has already happened and he is helpless to stop it.

That doesn’t prevent him from panicking in the face of its force. He steadies himself by doubling over and putting his hands on his knees.

“Huh… Okay, wow,” he wonders aloud to himself winded, and hyperventilating slightly with his oncoming panic. He coaches himself, “Oh, goodness. No, we’re good. We’re fine. Everything is fine. Don’t panic. Stand up and say something. Oh, God, what do I say?”

He straightens. He sobers himself by taking a deep breath. He takes another deep breath. He steels his nerves.

As far as what to say, he settles on his very favorite word,“Tsukki?”

“Yeah?” Tsukishima responds, voice a dull echo from the inside of the gym.

Yamaguchi keeps his back to the building as he shouts through the door, “Are you asking me out, or making fun of me?”

Yamaguchi knows being kissed does not equate to going steady. But, hell if he is going to be completely yanked around. He is trying to at least fumble in the direction of ridding him of his self-loathing, and that requires self-respect, even if he is a masochist.

Silence yawns between them, and Yamaguchi stands dumbly, excruciatingly aware of his heart pumping hard to feed his muscles so he can run, run, run when Tsukishima inevitably starts laughing at him. He feels dizzy.

Inside, he can hear Tsukishima kicking his toe against the floor, squeaking his sneakers. They’re not supposed to do that, as it scuffs the floors. But Tsukishima seems to take a vindictive satisfaction in it. Exactly as Yamaguchi is about to write this whole incident off as a joke made in very poor taste and go home to lick his wounds, the squeaking stops.

“Both,” Tsukishima replies, light voice echoing through the gymnasium. “Constantly both. Seriously, Yamaguchi. You’re so dense sometimes I swear light bends around you. Do you need a written invitation?”

Yamaguchi snorts a laugh, rolls his eyes at Tsukishima, and shakes his head at himself all at the same time. He doesn’t feel like he’s ready but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be at the rate he’s going so he pushes himself. He opens the door just a crack, and peeks through at Tsukishima.

Inside, Tsukishima is still railing on him, “Because I can dictate it to you. Let’s see, ‘My dearest Yamaguchi, I’m tired of waiting. Let’s please make out al--’”

“Apparently, Tsukki,” he interrupts snarkily. “I do need an invitation.”

A corner of Tsukishima’s mouth ticks up in a smile.

They both laugh.

When they fall quiet they regarded one another for a long moment, like each knows what the other is thinking but is waiting to see what move the other will do make before making their move. This is what their friendship has become, a game of chicken. Yamaguchi is dying to win and be whipped all at once. What a strange and wonderful courtship they have in front of them.

He is terrified. And he is delighted.

The way Tsukishima holds himself, spine in a relaxed but confident curve, head high, perceptive gold eyes framed in black, positively flickering with trouble, says, _‘Let’s play.’_

 _‘I’m game,’_ Yamaguchi thinks in return.

“Get me that ball,” Tsukishima demands as he kicks one lightly away.

The words are hypnotic and they cut through his anxiety. Following it with his eyes, he selects the correct ball out from all its identical brothers and sisters. He retrieves it. Obedience feels fantastic, like he’s in freefall and in the pleasant space between waking and sleep all at the same time. He puts it in Tsukishima’s waiting hands, just like before.

“Like this?”

“Just like that,” Tsukishima agrees, and Yamaguchi knows that felt fantastic for him, too.

Tsukishima holds the ball out and carelessly lets it fall from his open hand. They watch it roll across the floor. It stops, hidden among the others.

Yamaguchi glances back at Tsukishima. He waits for him to do something, anything at all. Tsukishima responds by closing the distance between them, almost. He stops just short, glows pink, and fiddles nerdily with his glasses.  Tsukishima appears to be annoyed with his own embarrassment.

Correction: Yamaguchi was waiting for him to do anything but that.

“Um…” Yamaguchi starts to attempt to fill the silence even though he’s got nothing in particular to say. “Are you gonna... Or... uh... should I?”

“Aren’t you going to close your eyes?” Tsukishima mutters peevishly, somehow managing not to look at Yamaguchi’s face even though they’re practically kissing already.

“Nope,” Yamaguchi responds, and is surprised at how levelly he says it. 

This he has to see.

Tsukishima waits a few awkward silent beats too long before he sniffs primly as if to say, _‘Fine. I’ll show you!’_

Tsukishima does close his eyes. In one impulsive twitch he dabs their lips together. Yamaguchi freezes. Tsukishima’s mouth is startlingly alive.

He inhales sharply through his nose. He somehow finds his hands balled up against Tsukishima’s chest like he’s been pushed and is grabbing for balance. Tsukishima steadies him by holding onto his upper arms. He pets over them.

His first kiss, and here he had convinced himself he was ready for it. What a joke!

He licks his lips. They taste sweet.

Yamaguchi loses it, giggling, “You’re wearing fruity chapstick. That’s so gay, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima huffs his amusement, “I agree. The gayest part about us kissing is my choice of chapstick. My faggoty chapstick is making this totally gay.”

Yamaguchi laughs at this, too. Tsukishima cards his fingers through Yamaguchi’s hair, and wipes the tears that are collecting in the corners of his eyes from his laughter away with the pads of his thumbs.

“Hey,” Tsukishima breathes after a moment. “Look at me.”

He does. Tsukishima gazes down at him in a way that sort of makes him want to fidget. He focuses on his eyelashes instead of his eyes. Beneath the lenses of Tsukishima's glasses, Yamaguchi can see each lush lash. They could be made of spun gold, the way they catch the light. Tsukishima is even prettier up close. Noting this, Yamaguchi stills.

Tsukishima kisses him, eyes closed again, but much more delicately, more deliberately this time. He is so very gentle. It’s the ghost of a kiss but Yamaguchi can taste it, not just the sweet fruit chapstick, but the tickle of something rich in his mouth. He chases the sensation. Their lips just barely brush. Tsukishima seems to take great pleasure in withholding their kiss from him, keeping their mouths one hot breath apart by touch alone.

“More?” Tsukishima asks against his mouth.

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi whispers, timidly, quietly.

Tsukishima’s eyes flick open. His pupils are blown wide. His face is composed. Yet, very much like the wavering pause after a joke and before laughter, he is on the edge of cracking a true smile, his genuine smile. He’s never seen Tsukishima look at anything or anyone with such open fascination before. Yamaguchi knows he’s reflecting the very same look back at his friend. There’s nothing in the world except Tsukishima’s almost smiling eyes.

“Hm?” Tsukishima questions with his lewd false innocence, like he caught what Yamaguchi said but refuses to acknowledge it because it isn’t the answer he wanted.

Yamaguchi whispers, just as timidly, just as quietly, but much more hungrily, “Please.”

This time Tsukishima agrees with a hum that is a drawn out note of satisfaction, “Mmhm.”

He slots their mouths together. Yamaguchi fears he’s forgotten how his works. It doesn’t really matter. Tsukishima, while certainly more skilled than he is, isn’t exactly neat either. He likes the way Tsukishima swabs their tongues together. Passingly, he wonders where he learned to do that. It doesn’t really matter either. He’s much more concerned with remembering to breathe against the delightful but decidedly overwhelming onslaught of sensation. When they come apart it is with a soft, wet sucking sound that Yamaguchi finds so erotic that it’s kind of silly.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He thinks that’s hot, too.

“Now what?” he asks, and starts sniggering again.

He could do this all night. He hopes Tsukishima feels the same way. It all seems like one big joke between the two of them and the rest of the planet isn’t in on it.

At the same time he aches for Tsukishima. He thought he had it bad before he tasted his mouth, and he was wrong. He would surrender his virginity right there on the hardwood floor with the volleyballs scattered all around watching, and the crumpled net off in the corner judging them, if that’s what Tsukishima said he wanted.

“Well then, now that you’re asking,” Tsukishima replies, as though offended that it took so long. “First, I want a hug. Jesus, could you be any more stiff? Relax.”

“Nice pun, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi can’t help but snark.

“Shut up,” Tsukishima snips, but Yamaguchi knows he’s amused.

“Okay, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi needlessly agrees, punchdrunk. “Sorry, Tsukki.”

“Shut up,” Tsukishima repeats with exasperation and hugs him under his arms, head bent downward to nuzzle against his hair. He pulls him forward, complaining, “Ventral contact now, dingus. I’ll accept none of this half-assed bro-hug shit.”

Yamaguchi is drawn up onto his toes by Tsukishima's hug. Good God! Tsukishima is way snugglier than he looks. It feels the same way it does to interact with a great dane who stubbornly refuses to believe that it is not a lapdog. Yamaguchi smiles, and squeezes Tsukishima back as well as he can at the angle he’s being held. He pecks a nervous kiss onto the bend in Tsukishima’s neck too, for good measure.

He smells good, sort of, as good as he can smell being a teenage athlete who just practiced for three hours. It’s familiar at least, like his room where they’ve spent countless hours together. Yamaguchi is so pleased with himself that he thinks he might just disintegrate into pixie dust and ascend to the heavens, his purpose in life having been fulfilled. But, it sounds like Tsukishima might have another job for him so he holds off on that.

“What next? Let’s see,” Tsukishima pretends to think even though it is clear to Yamaguchi that he thought all this through already. With the palms of his hands he can feel Tsukishima’s voice vibrating through his thin body. It is very strange and very pleasant. “Next, I’d say that I want you to walk nicely just four paces behind me, and pack my school bags, and make my tea, and cheer the loudest for me at matches, and laugh at all my stupid jokes. But you already do all that...”

“Amen,” Yamaguchi calls back. “Don’t you forget it.”

Tsukishima snorts a laugh into his hair and continues, “I think you should start by cleaning up the scuff mark I made on the floor. Don’t you?”

He nods his enthusiastic agreement, “Yeah, Tsukki.”

“Good,” Tsukishima tells him, and kisses him on the head. “Ready?”

“I am. Yes,” Yamaguchi responds, and feels dizzy again.

Tsukishima squeezes him tight before letting go.

As soon as he is released, he lowers himself to his hands and knees in front of Tsukishima. He spits on the mark Tsukishima’s shoes left floor. He takes great pleasure in working the rubber scuff off the laminated hardwood with the side of his hand.

Suddenly, he’s delighted to be a pervert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got this far I want you to know, I'm only sort of sorry I wrote this.


	5. Hella Queer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobia, both real and imagined; Tsukishima makes cringeworthy and purposefully offensive attempts to reclaim the words ‘fag’ and ‘fairy’ as part of his and Yamaguchi’s identities
> 
> Thank you to my patient, wonderful beta reader, Jaz, who put up with two months of ideas that were thrown in the garbage. They are [anatomyofaschoolgirl](http://anatomyofaschoolgirl.tumblr.com) on tumblr. You're cool, Jaz. You make my trash heart smile.
> 
> Also, thanks to the awesome people who made fanart for this story: alfakyns-art ([x](http://alfakyns-art.tumblr.com/post/105757706773/first-piece-of-fanart-for-winplaceshows-amazing)), femsanlynn ([x](http://femsanlynn.tumblr.com/post/105430073287/the-thing-about-5yenwishs-stoplights-is-its)) ([x](http://femsanlynn.tumblr.com/post/105581848647/stoplights)), and heybree ([x](http://heybree.tumblr.com/post/105049125743/for-my-yamatsuki-bae-winplaceshow-3-3-fanart-for)). Check them out!!
> 
> The song Tsukishima does the sensory deprivation to in this chapter is [Weezer’s “Buddy Holly”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kemivUKb4f4%0A). He also makes reference to the [keyboard cat meme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J---aiyznGQ). They’re links in the text. If you want a full playlist of Stoplights!Tsukishima lovesongs, ask in the comments.
> 
> Anyway… //adoringly buckles you into your rollercoaster seat// ...have fun!!

Yamaguchi hopes Tsukishima won’t smudge his glasses. The blond is nuzzling the back of his neck above the collar of his gakuran rather aggressively given that they’re in the middle of the schoolyard. Yamaguchi supposes that’s a moot point being that he’s been sitting between Tsukishima splayed legs, all but in his lap, for the entire lunch period.

Tsukishima snakes his arms around his waist, hooks his chin over Yamaguchi’s shoulder, and squeezes. It’s as pleasant as it is unexpected. Yamaguchi has known Tsukishima nearly half his life. But, he is blindsided by this, the fact that Tsukishima is a hopeless snugglebug.

Perhaps he should have seen it coming. Tsukishima loves his creature comforts. He, for example, loves heavy blankets. He is a blanket thief, though not one that steals them while he’s sharing them with other people. He quietly hunts for the choicest blankets then commandeers them while no one is watching; a sneaky blanket hoarder.

Left to his own devices long enough Yamaguchi is sure all the blankets in the Tsukishima household and a few from his own would end up in a huge pile on Tsukishima’s bed under which he would curl grumbling, _‘Leave me alone. These are mine.’_

In a way, Yamaguchi is goddamn proud of himself for being snuggled on by, in his humble opinion, the hottest boy in school. He wants to revel in the victory of this moment.

His sex-soaked teenage lizard self does celebrate. It careens around inside his skull enthusing, _‘Who’s whipped now, world? Hint: my newly minted boyfriend. So very whipped. If I hover my hand above his head he nuzzles into it like a tamed leopard. A majestic sex leopard. Heh. Halloween’s coming up. I should buy him kitty ears and a tail. High five, me. Good idea!’_

But the logical part of him doesn’t want people looking at them. The logical part of him is, in fact, on the verge of a panic attack because he thinks people might be looking at them.

It’s one thing to be quietly queer, but to flaunt it? This is not safe. It’s not smart. Yamaguchi’s gaze flicks back and forth across the yard, vigilant for kids whispering behind their hands, kids whose eyes rest on them one or two beats too long, kids who turn their bodies from them, perhaps in disgust. He needs to know if there is anyone he should watch out for later.

Tsukishima squeezes him tighter, and Yamaguchi wonders if he is trying to start a fight. He hums contentedly but the air around him is alive with a threat: _‘Care to have your ego shredded? Step right up. Start something. I dare you.’_

It’s killing him.

As firmly as is possible with his voice quaking and his face hot Yamaguchi argues, "Tsukki, stop. It’s too much. You're embarrassing me.”

"Yamaguchi, I'm a sadist. That’s exactly the point,” Tsukishima replies and his smiling eyes are somehow pitiless behind the dark frames of his glasses, which are in fact smudged and sliding slowly down his nose. “But, in all seriousness, I will stop if you’d like. Or we can go somewhere else. The roof, maybe, there’s nobody up there.”

“Really?” Yamaguchi asks, even though he is completely sure it’s true. He hates how whiny he must sound.

“Of course,” Tsukishima says, sounding self-amused. He removes his glasses with one hand and pulls at the hem of Yamaguchi’s sweatervest with the other. “It would be a shame if you stopped trusting me. Broken toys can’t be played with, you know.”

Nobody’s messed with him for three years and counting. He hasn’t cried over it for five years and counting. Viewed from a strictly strategic standpoint aligning himself with Tsukishima and becoming an athlete were best social decisions he ever made.

However, his body doesn’t know that. It shivers like he’s about to be attacked whenever he feels the least bit threatened, regardless if the threat is real or imagined. His hands feel like they’re shaking. He looks down at them. They are. He balls them up and presses them down into his lap so Tsukishima won’t notice.

“You’re afraid people are gawking,” Tsukishima observes mildly as he cleans his glasses with Yamaguchi’s sweatervest. He holds them up, deems his work unsatisfactory, and returns to rubbing thoughtful circles into the lenses. “The only person looking at us is Hinata, and that’s because he wants someone to chaperone him to the restroom. See him over there doing his absurd wee-wee dance? Don’t make eye contact. I’d rather let him wet himself than listen to him attempt conversation while I’m trying to take a leak again.”

It’s true. Hinata has a nervous bladder. He also has a thing when it comes to public restrooms. He doesn’t follow the commandments of urinal use. For example, ‘Thou shalt not provide musical accompaniment by singing, humming, or whistling for such is the behavior of anxious weirdos.’ Hinata can’t seem to get that through his head.

Nishinoya and Tanaka will tell anyone who will listen of their plans to rehabilitate Hinata. Yamaguchi wants nothing to do with it. Their unsolicited efforts have only resulted in spreading Hinata’s phobia. He now panics every damn day at school. He is petrified of running into the second years in the bathroom. Yamaguchi is afraid to think what they did to him.

“Heh, heh,” Yamaguchi sniggers but he can’t seem to relax.

“You don’t believe me, about the fact that nobody is watching us,” Tsukishima seems somewhat disappointed to notice. He replaces his glasses with great care. “I’ll prove it. I’ll even make it into a game. It’ll be fun.”

Tsukishima’s idea of fun is freaky, to put it kindly. It always has been. But, after what happened in the gym the previous week with Tsukishima’s rather dramatic confession, Yamaguchi thinks it might be the death of him.

“Sure, Tsukki,” he agrees anyway, and pictures what he would like written on his grave: ‘Here lies Yamaguchi Tadashi. He never fucking learned.’

“We have new safewords, like stoplights. Green means go. Yellow means slow. Red means stop. Safeword still means stop. That way, for you, the experience is like having a gas pedal and brakes,” Tsukishima explains, affixing a splitter to the wire of his headphones and producing a twin set from his bookbag. His dispassionate voice is somehow soothing. “Hey, have seen the [keyboard cat meme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J---aiyznGQ)?”

“Huh?” The rapid change of topic throws Yamaguchi. “It’s the video of the cat with the blue jersey, and some guy makes it play the piano.”

“You’re going to pretend to be keyboard cat,” Tsukishima informs him as he carefully fits the headphones over Yamaguchi’s ears. It’s set he uses in private. Unlike the noise canceling set he uses in public, these have earcups that are open backed to create the illusion of a spacious soundstage. Yamaguchi can hear Tsukishima speaking and not much else. “I’m going to make you look abjectly ridiculous right here in front of all four classes in our year.”

“You’re going to what?” Yamaguchi interrupts.

He attempts to distract himself from his mounting terror by focusing on Tsukishima’s pretty wrists, which always show. The sleeves of his school uniforms are never long enough more than a couple of months.

“I’ll humiliate you. And nobody is going to care,” Tsukishima finishes, peeved at the interruption. “Pretend you’re holding drumsticks, and breathe. You’re quivering.”

Yamaguchi does as he is asked with his hands, but he doesn’t manage to stop quivering.

The music starts. The sound is vivid and three-dimensional. The drumbeat really pops, like it does at live shows. He would probably enjoy this more if his body wasn’t impossibly tight.

 _‘Tsukki said he’s going to humiliate me. But that’s not what he means. He’s just trying to point out that I’m easily embarrassed. We’re just playing a game,’_ he soothes himself. _‘A schoolyard game. Innocent.’_

The muscles between his ribs seize. His breath comes short. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Tsukishima takes grasp of his wrists, and begins air drumming with him. His precision in time with track is uncanny. It’s viscerally satisfying, like dancing. It’s like he can see a drum kit laid out in front of them.

The headphones sing, _[‘What’s with these homies dissin’ my girl? Why do they gotta front? What’d we ever do to these guys that made them so violent?’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kemivUKb4f4)_

Tsukishima throws his arm out on a cymbal crash and Yamaguchi, surprised, flinches spectacularly. A violent full body twitch draws his body curling in toward its midline.

“Ah!” he complains.

_‘Woo-hoo, but you know I'm yours. Woo-hoo, and I know you're mine. Woo-hoo, and that’s for all of time.’_

He grits his teeth and hangs his head in shame. Why’s he have to be such a goddamn sissy all the time? Why can’t he be more like Tsukishima? At least, when Tsukishima’s scared he doesn’t usually wear it on his sleeve.

Tsukishima doesn’t let him go. He puts his feet over Yamaguchi’s and Yamaguchi knows this is to prevent him from curling his knees in toward his chest. Tsukishima taps them as though they’re pumping the pedal of a base drum.

_‘Oo-ee-oo, I look just like Buddy Holly. Oh-oh, and you're Mary Tyler Moore.’_

“You’re panicking,” Tsukishima murmurs over the music, as though Yamaguchi doesn’t realize that already. “Don’t panic. Relax.”

Yamaguchi wishes it was that easy. They continue playing on the kit only Tsukishima can see, to the beat only they can hear.

But he imagines he can feel people’s eyes on him and he hates it.

_I don't care what they say about us anyway. I don't care ‘bout that._

"Match your breathing with mine,” Tsukishima instructs. “Feel it?"

Jesus tapdancing Christ! He can't even breathe correctly. He needs to be told how to breathe.

_Don't you ever fear. I'm always near. I know that you need help._

Tsukishima’s body is warm and firm all along his back. His breathing is as steady and even as the hard-hitting drumbeat they are playing, centering.

“You aren’t embarrassed,” Tsukishima whispers, more of a directive than an inquiry. “Are you?”

His light voice over the music sends a thrill shivering through Yamaguchi all the way to his fingertips.

_‘Your tongue is twisted. Your eyes are slit. You need a guardian.’_

_‘Nobody’s looking at us,’_ he coaches himself with his eyes still shut tight so he can’t confirm that supposition. _‘What we do is nobody’s business. If they think it is, well, they’re wrong. Nobody is going to hurt us. Probably. I grew up big and tall, just like I always wanted. I’m taller than Sugawara. I’m taller than Ukai. Nobody will hurt me. Breathe.’_

He does breathe, exactly in time with Tsukishima. Easy, in and out, just like Tsukishima; it feels good. Tsukishima makes it feel good.

_‘Woo-hoo, and you know I'm yours. Woo-hoo, and I know you're mine! Woo-hoo, and that’s for all of time.’_

_‘Fuck it,’_ Yamaguchi decides. _‘I’m keyboard cat!’_

Abruptly he’s on the other side of his fear, once again unscathed. It feels distant, like it was something experienced by another person, something he read once in a book.

He rocks to the bubble-grunge hook, feels it right down in the core of his teenage heart. There is pure power in the intricacies of the sound. The warped guitar is harsh, fresh, and effective.

_‘Oo-ee-oo, I look just like Buddy Holly. Oh-oh, and you're Mary Tyler Moore.’_

Yamaguchi snorts. Tsukishima does look sort of like a blond Buddy Holly, with his height and his thin frame and his dark rimmed glasses.

And Rivers Cuomo? He would follow Cuomo straight into hell for recording this moment of unadulterated pop-rock bliss:

_‘I don't care what they say about us anyway. I don't care ‘bout that. I don't care ‘bout that.’_

He moves with Tsukishima, instead of resisting him. His limbs loosen. Tsukishima nuzzles into his hair and that is completely fine. He doesn’t care who sees because he loves this song. It reminds him of Tsukishima, who is always exact with his song choices. He’s allowed that, just like everyone else. He’ll celebrate that right in the middle of the schoolyard, as is his right.

“Oops, I was wrong. People are looking,” Tsukishima notes with wry amusement.

Yamaguchi’s eyes snap open. His heart leaps. He panics, “Aw, shit. Really?”

Tsukishima laughs. “Yeah, the girls think we’re cute. Yachi is smiling at you. See what happens if you smile back.”

He does. She turns away from him, laughing behind her hand and blushing. It isn’t so bad.

* * *

 

In fact, he flies from the thrill of it all day, right up until the start of practice when he and Tsukishima wait in the clubroom with the rest of the team for the gym to be free. Cross legged and knee to knee they huddle close to tape one another’s fingertips.

Tsukishima is fastidious with his tape jobs. Yamaguchi appreciates what good care Tsukishima takes of his hands. Azumane's and Tanaka’s spikes are so powerful that blocking them poorly can rip a nail right from its bed, which is bad news for practicing serves. Proper taping helps prevent that.

On the other side of the room Nishinoya preens in front of the mirror.

“You know what I really like about myself?” the libro asks no one in particular.

“What’s that, Noya-senpai?” Hinata responds adoringly.

“I think I’ve got really great underarm hair,” Nishinoya replies, as though that’s a normal thing to say. He admires it in the mirror for a moment. Fingers in the form of shooting pistols, he winks at himself. “Yeah. It’s awesome.”

Hinata doesn’t quite seem to know how to respond to that. Neither does anybody else.

Ennoshita stares blankly into the middle distance, like a man addled from war. Yamaguchi gets the feeling this isn’t the first time Nishinoya’s talked about this. He feels sort of bad for Ennoshita. He didn’t do anything to deserve Tanaka and Nishinoya’s jackassery.

The only sound is that of Sugawara shuffling Sawamura's deck of cards. Not to threaten anyone with, he and Azumane are too busy beating Sawamura in poker for that. Yamaguchi doesn’t think they’re listening.

Azumane laughs nervously the way he always does when a silence goes on too long.

Tanaka breaks the silence by agreeing, “Yeah. It’s really lush. I’d even go so far as to say it is the second lushest on the team, right after Sawamura.”

“Don’t involve me in this,” Sawamura tells them from behind his fanned hand of cards.

Nishinoya starts inspecting his underarm hair again, as though to verify Tanaka’s claim.

Tsukishima’s lip curls. His nose crinkles. He looks over his shoulder at Nishinoya and Tanaka like they’re morphing into sentient piles of garbage.

Nishinoya catches Tsukishima’s eye in the mirror and starts ranting almost immediately, “Don’t you look at me like that, Four-Eyes. You, with your silky-ass pit hair. You have no right to judge me. No right.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond, probably because there is no need to. Nishinoya is digging his own grave with this one.

Yamaguchi bites his lip and does his very best not to laugh. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with their team. They’re a bunch of crazy queers. He can’t tell if they’re all weird and volleyball makes people gay or if they all happen to be gay and volleyball makes people crazy. Or, perhaps, queers just band together before they even know they’re queer like what happened with him and Tsukishima. That seems most likely.

Nishinoya rounds on him, “What’s so funny?”

As usual Yamaguchi lies poorly, “Nothing, senpai.”

Nishinoya is having none of it. “Don’t senpai me with your stringy-ass pit hair, Yamaguchi! Get a pair of clippers. I bet Tsukishima could braid that shit if he tried.”

This is the point at which Ennoshita quietly excuses himself. Yamaguchi supposes he goes to scream into one of the soft mats the track team stores in the gym.

“Someone please remind me why it’s necessary to have this conversation,” Sugawara interjects, then throws down his hand of cards with a ‘read ‘em and weep’ smile that makes Sawamura wince.

In unison Kageyama and Hinata nod their agreement that this conversation should end sooner rather than later.

“It’s necessary because...” Nishinoya makes a vague frustrated gesture with both hands. He points at Tsukishima, without having gathered his thoughts apparently, because he opens his mouth and no words come out. On his second try pointing he gets it, “Because blow me, Tsukishima. That’s why.”

Tsukishima tips his head back and laughs lightly, “Ask me again when you learn at least to behave like a domesticated animal instead of feral one.”

“No fighting,” Sawamura warns as he deals out another hand.

“He’s wrong. I can like whatever part of my body I want to like,” Nishinoya argues, incensed. “That’s my prerogative.”

“Yes. Well, go admire your pit hair outside,” Sugawara replies, watching Azumane instead of looking at Nishinoya.

Azumane, for his part, appears to be as worried about his hand of cards as he is about the libro. Sugawara complains about this sometimes about how Azumane difficult to beat in poker because no matter how good a hand he gets he unfailingly frets about it. He’s impossible to read.

Nishinoya doesn’t budge. He stands in the middle of the room and pursing his lips and staring angrily off into the middle distance the way he does when he’s about to really burst into a ridiculous tirade.

Sawamura shoves all the entire pot of gummy candies they’re using as chips at Sugawara. “Please, Noya. Go take a walk.”

Everyone goes quiet again. Yamaguchi thinks distractedly that the gummy candies the third years are using for chips are gross. Sweets hurt his sensitive teeth. He doesn’t know why the other boys like them so much.

“Yeah, a walk sounds nice,” Tanaka enthuses when nobody else says anything, and bounces to his feet. “Let’s go see Shimizu. I think I saw her pass by with Yachi.”

Nishinoya does not appear to be convinced by this, for once. However, he allows Tanaka to take him by the elbow and steer him away. Right before Nishinoya exits the room he turns and whips one of his elbow protectors at Tsukishima.

Though it hits him square on the back of the head, Tsukishima is unmoved.

“It’s safe to say Noya-san can hold a grudge,” Tsukishima comments mildly, scrunching up his nose so his glasses don’t slide down his face as he lays tape on the pad of Yamaguchi’s pinky finger with painstaking care.

“He sure can,” Azumane agrees in a way that makes Yamaguchi think what he really means is, _‘It’s been over a week. You should apologize. A heartfelt apology.’_

“I heard that, Asahi-san!” Nishinoya calls from outside.

Azumane cringes. It is also safe to say that Azumane is whipped.

“Hey,” Tsukishima calls Yamaguchi’s attention back to himself by lightly squeezing Yamaguchi’s fingertips. Yamaguchi loves when he does that. It’s really satisfying. Tsukishima doesn’t look up from fiddling with the tape on Yamaguchi’s ring finger when he says, “I’m going to take you out tonight. We’ll go to that diner you like, the one with the stupid goddamn chicken fingers you always order. Be ready around 8:00, okay?”

Yamaguchi will definitely be ready at 8 o’clock, if they can survive practice.

* * *

 

Later, while they’re lined up to practice their serves Tsukishima mutters in Yamaguchi’s general direction, "That's so gay.”

At this Yamaguchi remembers kissing Tsukishima, and what he said about his strawberry chapstick. He misses the ball spectacularly while in mid-air. Tsukishima laughs at him, thoroughly amused with himself.

On the other side of the court Nishinoya, who is practicing receives, throws up his hands. "Goddamnit. Can you two not? For, like, one goddamn minute can you not be jackasses? Some of us take this seriously, you know."

Yamaguchi is insulted. He takes volleyball very seriously. Honestly, it’s like the other boys think accounting for Tsukishima is his job. Though, maybe it is. He can think of worse jobs.

Sugawara advances on them and Yamaguchi genuinely cannot tell if he plans to chastise them or smack the shit out of them.

"Stop using the word 'gay' as a pejorative, Tsukishima," he scolds.

“Oh, somebody’s gonna get it,” Tanaka calls.

Sawamura pokes him in the ribs to shut him up.

“Oh, gonna get it,” Hinata echos one awkward beat too late for it to be funny.

Kageyama cuffs him a little harder than is strictly necessary.

"I'm not using it as a pejorative, Sugawara,” Tsukishima explains patiently as he backs away from the setter. “He's almost as queer as I am."

Sugawara pushes until Tsukishima is backed up against the wall. Tsukishima, for his part, is unmoved as usual.

"Stop," Sugawara warns, pointing a finger up in his face in a way that Yamaguchi genuinely cannot tell is playful or threatening. "You stop that right now."

"It's an inside joke," Yamaguchi explains in a rather half-assed attempt to defuse the situation.

"Nice try, Yamaguchi!" Nishinoya interjects from the other side of the court. "Suga's not buying any Stockholm syndrome today!"

Tsukishima doesn’t stop. Gazing stone-faced into Sugawara’s eyes Tsukishima informs him that: “Yamaguchi is queerer even than the faggoty strawberry chapstick I apply thrice daily. Such gay. Hella queer. So--"

Sugawara reaches out and snaps the band on Tsukishima’s sports goggles.

"Gay," Tsukishima whispers behind the shield of his hand as Sugawara walks away.

Yamaguchi's the only one who hears him.

* * *

 

It isn’t entirely Tsukishima’s fault that he can’t focus. At his evening practice with Shimada, Yamaguchi cannot seem to serve one ball properly, not one.

“Are you okay?” Shimada asks, ducking to pick up a ball. “Is there something you want to talk about? You seem nervous.”

“I’m dating Tsukki,” Yamaguchi blurts, voice shrill with excitement. He hates it when his voice does that. But, in that moment it almost doesn’t matter. “We’re going on a date tonight.”

Shimada is the first person he’s told about Tsukishima, using words instead of actions. He kind of wishes it was his mother. But, that’s not going to happen anyway. He pushes the thought out of his mind.

“Oh, cool. That’s great,” Shimada praises, without flinching or making any embarrassing commentary on his sexuality like ‘I didn’t know you were gay’ or ‘I thought you liked Yachi.’

Because he’s actually not gay, he’s bi. And he does like Yachi but not as much as Yachi likes Shimizu. Tsukishima might be right about their team being the gayest in Japan.

“Should I buy him flowers?” Yamaguchi asks, and feels a bit foolish.

But, Shimada always takes him seriously, “How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” Yamaguchi admits, dribbling a volleyball. “A week?”

“That’s very sweet. But, I would wait a little while. Maybe try little things first. What’s he like that you might be able to get for under ¥500?”

Yamaguchi lists: “Trash talk, pirated tunes, strawberries when they’re in season, more trash talk, gumballs but only pink ones for some reason even though they all taste the same.”

“Oh, gumballs,” Shimada agrees and Yamaguchi cannot articulate all the ways in which he appreciates the fact that Shimada always seems excited about giving him advice. “That’s a cute idea. Try that.”

Yamaguchi floats a serve. It hits the net and tips over exactly as intended.

Shimada gives him a high five. Shimada is a good person. Yamaguchi is suddenly reminded of how lucky he is to have him in his life. He hopes he never does anything to disappoint him. He doesn’t say that.

* * *

 

Yamaguchi doesn’t end up buying Tsukishima any candy either. He goes directly home and gets ready to go out. He ends up waiting nearly twenty minutes by his bedroom window for Tsukishima to pick him up.

When Tsukishima arrives he vacillates on the sidewalk for some reason, instead of coming straight to the door. Yamaguchi, for his part, just stares out onto the street watching him.

 _‘Hell,’_ he thinks. _‘Look at you in the fluffy-fluff scarf tucked into the navy blue duffle coat, and the tight-tight black skinny jeans tucked into the shiny black ankle cut engineer boots. Those boots are hot. I’m going to have dreams about those boots!’_

“Tsukki, you are _so_ cute,” he tells his empty room, and snaps a candid picture of him with his phone. Without thinking, he speaks to the perfect snapshot, “You have no idea how to dress it down, do you? It’s okay, Tsukki. When I make you my little husband I will dress you every day like a doll.”

This makes him feel like a creep. Clearly his teenage lizard brain is beginning to voice itself aloud. This could become a problem.

Also, he’s getting ahead of himself. He has to at least survive one date before he starts thinking about _marrying_ Tsukishima. Good lord, he has it bad. It’s only about to get worse. He considers that for a second, a touch hysterically. Then he takes a deep breath in, and out.

Tsukishima knocks in the door finally, and it almost scares Yamaguchi out of his skin as though he wasn’t expecting it.

Out of necessity, he catches a very brief look at himself in the mirror. He looks fine, he tells himself. Actually he looks like someone out of a 90’s grunge band with his red plaid jacket and his scruffy hair and his kicks. He thinks he pulls it off.

 _‘You’re not getting me down today, freckles!’_ he thinks, triumphantly. _‘You neither, weird bit of misbehaving hair. Don’t even try it!’_

Walking down the stairs has never been harder.

 _‘Don’t fall!’_ he tells himself, moving slowly and clinging to the handrail. _‘One foot in front of the other.’_

He does a stupid little half wave when he sees Tsukishima. He’s directing the strange pout he wears when he’s curious or interested in something through the window by the door. He does a stupid little half wave back, then runs his hand through his hair.

 _‘You can kiss him for no other reason than to say hello,’_ his teenage-lizard brain reminds him just as he opens the door. _‘You can literally walk up to him and try to lick his tonsils whenever you want. Ah… love is a beautiful, many splendored thing.’_

Except, he doesn’t kiss him. He just stands there dumbly blocking the doorway, stupefied by how pretty Tsukishima is with his halo of blond curls, and his intelligent gold eyes behind black frames.

Tsukishima’s frown is perfect, “Are you going to invite me in?”

 _‘Say hello first,’_ Yamaguchi thinks, and doesn’t budge.

Almost impulsively he leans forward to kiss the corner of Tsukishima’s mouth. He dabs their lips together. Under his jacket Tsukishima’s body is warm and firm. Yamaguchi likes running his hands down the long lines of it, which is good because when Tsukishima slips him tongue it feels so absurdly good that Yamaguchi feels the need to cling to him to keep his legs from going directly out from under him. He’s not sure how long they’re at it but he sure as hell knows he likes the soft, wet sound their mouths make when they move against each other.

Breaking the kiss, Tsukishima clears his throat as though to say, _‘Right. Good. Now can I come in?’_

Yamaguchi remembers himself and steps aside, blushing down at the floor.

Once Tsukishima is inside there is an odd moment where they adjust themselves in their pants, which is not nearly as awkward as Yamaguchi supposes it could be probably because they purposefully avoid eye contact. Excitable -- they are exceedingly excitable.

“Hi,” Yamaguchi says finally, and it’s sort of funny.

“Yeah, hi,” Tsukishima agrees. “Your folks around?”

Yamaguchi is afraid to think what that has to do with anything. “No.”

“Ah, didn’t think so. You wouldn’t be acting like this if they were.” Somehow casually Tsukishima takes Yamaguchi’s hips in his grasp and pins him up against the wall next to the staircase by pressing their bodies flush together. “Hey. Do you have an umbrella? Outside, it’s starting to rain.”

He tries not to make an undignified mess of himself by restlessly circling hips like his body begs him to, because for Christ’s sake Tsukishima’s hard cock is slotted right next to his own. How is Tsukishima so calm? He is the very living avatar of all the reasons the world is not fair.

Yamaguchi grinds his hips against Tsukishima’s, just to see what will happen.

Tsukishima gasps and one corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile, both at the same time. The delight that flashes through his eyes is somehow dangerous, as though he’s amused at some private depraved thought.

Beholding this Yamaguchi swears he hears part of his brain shutting down like an old computer. He thinks this might be what it feels like to get high.

Screwing around should not be this easy. He feels betrayed, as though he’s been lied to all his life. Sex isn’t difficult. It’s instinctual. He kind of wants to cop a feel, slide his hand between them and--

“Umbrella,” Tsukishima reminds him.

“Um… Uh… Well, yes. We have umbrellas here. Lots of umbrellas. I can show them to you,” he blathers, feeling like his IQ had dropped at least one standard deviation in the haze of his arousal. “You wanna pick one you like, Tsukki?”

Walking through town Tsukishima carries the umbrella he selected while Yamaguchi chatters.

It’s strange. It feels like everything has gone back to normal. What goes on between him and Tsukishima certainly isn’t normal by most peoples’ standards. It never was. But, Yamaguchi finds himself comfortable around Tsukishima again. He has returned to feeling like he can tell Tsukishima anything, and receive an honest answer in return. That to him feels normal.

Sitting at the little family restaurant feels like every other time they’ve sat at the little family restaurant. It’s a dinky little place, a regular hangout for high schoolers late at night. They don’t require patrons to buy anything other than a soda, and the wait staff knows better than to bother much with them.

Under the table, Tsukishima plays footsie with Yamaguchi while he decides what he’d like to eat.

Behind his menu Yamaguchi rambles because suddenly, even though he feels like he knows every little thing about Tsukishima, he wants to know more, “Tsukki, hey. You ever think about what your own funeral might look like? Or, like, if you could have any view out your window what it would be? Or, maybe, if you could tame any wild animal in the world and keep it as your own what would you want?”

“I’m not going to have a funeral because my last words are going to be, ‘I buried the treasure in the--’ and my greedy grandchildren will be too busy looking for the treasure I didn’t actually bury to hold any sort of services. Out my window, the Orion Nebula. Then the last question is pretty obvious. Isn’t it?” Tsukishima peeks over his menu and for a flash his bespectacled eyes are smiling. Under the table he pins Yamaguchi’s toes to the floor. “You.”

When the poor waitress comes around she has a very difficult time trying to draw a comprehensible order out of Yamaguchi. Every time they’re about to get it right Tsukishima absentmindedly runs the smooth toe of his boot up the inside of Yamaguchi’s calf. It makes Yamaguchi forget everything he has ever learned and mumble stupidly, “Uh… Um… Well...”

Tsukishima finds this very amusing. They wait for their dinner to be served and watch the rain roll down the window and crystalize the light from the streetlamps into little yellow sunbursts.

As soon as Yamaguchi’s plate arrives in front of him he decides there is something wrong with it. He has a feeling of deja vu. He tilts his head.

“Why are you looking at your food like that?” Tsukishima pauses half-way through skewering one of his zucchini sticks in favor of leveling a peeved glance at Yamaguchi. “With God as my witness, Yamaguchi, if you say what I think you’re about to say…”

Yamaguchi says exactly what he’s thinking, “Ya know, these look too big to be chicken fingers.”

“Goddamnit, Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima drops his fork and removes his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. “They aren’t actually chicken fingers.”

“I know chickens don’t have fingers, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi grumbles, a touch offended at what Tsukishima seems to be implying about his intellect.

“I feel like I’m in a Twilight Zone episode. I knew I shouldn’t have let you order those.” Tsukishima puts his glasses back on and looks up as though to appeal to the heavens for deliverance from stupid people. “You seriously don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Yamaguchi asks, inspecting the breading on the gargantuan chicken finger.

“Having this conversation about chicken fingers. The last time we had this conversation, I swear to God, you got so mad at me you almost walked out.”

“I did?” Yamaguchi asks, picking the chicken up with his fork just to feel the rather substantial heft of it.

He hopes Tsukishima isn’t going to start in on him with the conversation about his temper because he doesn’t have a temper. He shook Tsukishima by his shirt just once, because he needed it.

“Are you demented?” Tsukishima deadpans. “I mean, do you actually have dementia? Because this, right now, is like talking to a dementia patient.”

“I remember plenty, Tsukki. For example I remember that chicken fingers aren’t supposed to look like this.”

Some of the chicken breading gets on the table. It offends Tsukishima’s sensibilities.

“Look at me when I’m talking,” Tsukishima demands, and reaches out with his fork to pin Yamaguchi’s to the plate. “I need to know you’re listening.”

Yamaguchi meets Tsukishima’s eyes and leans in, listening intently.

“Chicken fingers are sort of strip things,” Tsukishima lectures sagely. “Chicken tenders are sort of flat fillet things, like you have there on your plate. The menu says ‘tenders’ so that’s what you got. Got it?”

“Sure, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi agrees even though he thinks the real problem is that this restaurant doesn’t know what a chicken finger is.

Tsukishima narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you understand this time?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Yamaguchi replies, and isn’t sure why he feels like smiling. Maybe it’s because he knows they’re probably going to have this exact same conversation next time they come here.

They share most of their meal in silence. As usual Tsukishima’s table manners are perfect but he eats like he has something against the food itself and he’s doing it a favor by consuming it.

“Wha’d you do to your wrists?” Tsukishima asks after a while. “You’ve got a set of scars around your wrists now. Those are new.”

Yamaguchi’s heart clatters against his ribcage. He tugs at his sleeves. “Oh, well you see… Um… I sort of tied myself up in the upstairs bathroom using a zip tie, and it was kind of hard to escape. There was blood.”

“I see,” Tsukishima acknowledges neutrally. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi admits. “I did.”

“Cool,” Tsukishima comments, and goes quiet again.

Outside the rain drums down hard against the windows like someone flicked a knife and opened up the sky’s veins. It gives him an odd feeling like the moment they’re sharing is unstuck from time; that some things between them will never change. They watch the rain together as the dishes are cleared.

Tsukishima is mutely excited about dessert, as usual. According to Akiteru, when his brother was very small he had a happy dance reserved for just two occasions: the arrival of their father home from work, and strawberry shortcake. Tsukishima always orders two slices. One for himself and one for Yamaguchi to give to him after feigning interest in it for a little while.

“Are you going to eat?” Tsukishima prompts.

“Oh, yeah,” Yamaguchi replies, groping for his fork for so they can start their ritual charade.

It isn’t there.

“You took my fork,” Yamaguchi realizes.

“Animals don’t use utensils,” Tsukishima tells him disinterestedly.

His tone is completely benign, like he genuinely cannot see any problem in Yamaguchi leaning down to eat his cake straight from the plate or not at all. He is absorbed with the glazed strawberry skewered on his fork. With his cheek resting on one fist he holds his utensil carefully. The part between his fingers acts as the fulcrum of the lever. His eyes follow the strawberry up and down.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi warns, and feels very brave for doing so.

Tsukishima ignores him. He takes his sweet time enjoying his glazed strawberry. Not in any way that is overtly lewd; he just savors it as though it is his only treasure, deliverance from a worthless and wearisome world. Yamaguchi imagines Tsukishima lacks color vision save for strawberries, album covers, and astronomy textbooks. He cannot look away from him.

When Tsukishima finishes he relents.

“Just kidding,” Tsukishima soothes. “Relax.”

His smile is alarmingly clinical. It turns Yamaguchi on.

He produces a fork, seemingly from nowhere. Sleight of hand is one of Tsukishima’s many odd quarks, born of boredom. Yamaguchi thinks Tsukishima likes magic tricks because he likes knowing things others don’t. Collecting secrets, in general, interests him.

Tsukishima holds it out to him. He reaches for it carefully, convinced by Tsukishima’s smug smile that this is some sort of trick. It is. Just when the fork is within range of his grasp Tsukishima withdraws it. Yamaguchi could reach a little further and get the fork if he wanted but something about the look on Tsukishima’s face, eyebrow ticked up like he’s waiting for something, tells him he shouldn’t.

They do this several times until, frustrated, Yamaguchi drops his hands to the table.

“You’re not even going to try it? Rude. I ordered that just for you.”

Tsukishima offers the fork again. Yamaguchi reaches for it, and it is withheld from him. One corner of Tsukishima’s mouth ticks up in a smile.

Yamaguchi begs, “Please.”

Tsukishima gives him the fork. When it passes between their hands Tsukishima squeezes the pads of Yamaguchi’s fingers like when he’s done taping them before practice. Yamaguchi finds this exceedingly comforting.

Yamaguchi picks at his cake and watches Tsukishima eat. He finds the way Tsukishima eats exceedingly sensual. His bites are neat, and thoughtful. He read somewhere once that confident individuals rarely make extraneous moments. That’s true of Tsukishima.

He makes clean cuts of the slice with the side of his fork. Sometimes he likes to taste the cream between the layers of cake before he bites into them. Just one experimental lick, when Tsukishima looks at him while he does this its challenging somehow.

“Hey, you know how I first figured out that you’re a masochist?”

“Do I want to know?” Yamaguchi asks, feeling like he doesn’t. He’d rather silently study Tsukishima as he interacts with his dessert.

“Whenever I would talk down to you, you never looked hurt or upset,” Tsukishima enlightens him. “You get this dreamy, far away look in your eyes. Kind of like you have now.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t know if the dreamy look in his eyes has anything to do with his masochism. He thinks it might be the fact that his lizard brain is raving again, manic, _‘Jesus. Yes. Eat it! Eat that cake, Tsukki! My life revolves around these, the minutes when you eat cake. If this was all you ever gave me I’d be happy. Fuck yeah, eat it you slick bastard.’_

Yamaguchi tries to cover whatever strange expression his lewd thoughts might be drawing across his face by resting his chin in his palm and hiding his mouth behind his fingers.

It doesn’t work very well. Tsukishima looks him over and determines: “I don’t know what you’re thinking but I do know that whatever it is, it’s weird.”

“Mm,” Yamaguchi agrees. “Yeah. It’s pretty weird, Tsukki.”

“Your weird thoughts, are they why you aren’t eating?”

“It’s sweet,” he explains, knowing Tsukishima understands his teeth have always been sensitive.

“I know. It’s good.” Tsukishima reflects Yamaguchi’s body language by resting his chin in his palm as he offers a bit of cake on his fork. “One bite.”

‘People aren’t watching. They don’t care what we do. And if they do care, fuck them,’ Yamaguchi thinks but nonetheless looks both ways before leaning forward and closing his lips around the fork.

“Does it hurt?” Tsukishima asks almost immediately, rather startlingly impartial on the subject of Yamaguchi’s pain.

No, he’s not impartial. He’s quietly curious, excited.

“Hn,” Yamaguchi winces.

The strawberries and cream are rich but the dull ache they sink into his teeth is a whole lot like a brain-freeze, sting spreading down the nerves of his neck all the way down into his limbs. It’s numbing, and with Tsukishima watching he likes it.

Still wincing, he shows Tsukishima his clean, pink tongue.

“Ah,” he says by which he means, _‘Done. Happy?’_

Tsukishima’s pale cheeks glow pink. He looks down and chases the last of his cake around his plate with his fork slowly instead of responding. Yamaguchi can tell he is, in fact, happy.

Yamaguchi pushes his untouched slice of cake across the table because he’s pervert and he wants to watch Tsukishima eat it. He wishes they were in Tsukishima’s bedroom, instead of the diner.

When Tsukishima finishes his cake Yamaguchi insists on paying. Tsukishima doesn’t fight it. He does, however, slip money into Yamaguchi’s pack pocket as they walk out the door. Yamaguchi pretends not to notice.

In the vestibule there are several cheerily blinking arcade games. Yamaguchi kicks Tsukishima’s ass in Mrs. PacMan a couple times before he lets Tsukishima win the last round. Then he starts putting coins in the gumball machine with the intent of winning a pink one for Tsukishima. He keeps all the rest for himself. He and Tsukishima have a symbiotic relationship.

“I don’t need a pink gumball,” Tsukishima grumbles, standing over him and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’s painfully cute.

“Of course you do,” Yamaguchi patiently corrects. “You love pink gumballs.”

Tsukishima does not deny this. He kneels next to Yamaguchi and asks, “What if you run out of change? If you run out of change before you get one, what will you do?”

“I can always get more change,” Yamaguchi replies, trying not to smile or laugh. Tsukishima is just like a little kid sometimes, when they’re alone.

Yamaguchi puts one coin after another into the machine. Together they watch one gumball after the next spiral out.

As soon as a pink one comes up, before it even completes its winding path, Tsukishima holds out a cupped hand for Yamaguchi to hand it over to him. It reminds Yamaguchi of how excited he used to get over the pink ones when they were little kids, instead of big ones. Despite his poker face the joy in his eyes used to be sort of silly, and very sweet.

When Yamaguchi drops it into Tsukishima’s waiting hand he sniffs primly, and glances away. Then he glances back looking like he wants to say something, eyes narrowed, lips parted. He doesn’t. He looks away again.

Yamaguchi waits a few awkward beats, squeezing the pads of Tsukishima’s fingers, before he says, “Is something the matter?”

“Hey, are you happy so far?” Tsukishima asks bluntly over the pink gumball. With his poker face the open curiosity in his eyes is sort of silly, and very sweet.

 _‘Absolutely,’_ Yamaguchi wants to answer. _‘We’ve survived our first date. Let’s get married tomorrow.’_

But, that’s precisely the moment when a group of boys about their age pass through the vestibule. One spits a single word at them:

“Faggots.”

The other two laugh.

It leaves him cold. They may as well have reached out and hit him senselessly. They walk right into the diner like it was nothing.

Tsukishima looks kind of young, and kind of scared; eyes wide and mouth open like he’s been smacked upside the head. Alone again with the cheerily blinking lights of the arcade games, Yamaguchi’s heart aches.

He is reminded of the fact that while Tsukishima’s shrewdness and his artful words are a masterful cover-up they in no way negate the fact that in some small ways he is supremely vulnerable. In fact, what Tsukishima rails on most is also usually what he fears most and is trying to bury the deepest. Today, it happened to be the fact he is so very gay. Such gay. Hella queer.

Tsukishima can’t hide it like Yamaguchi can. No, Tsukishima’s always been louder somehow. It’s like he overheard Tsukishima saying to Hinata in Hillside Mart the other day: _'No one has ever asked me if I’m gay. Not once. They’ve always assumed.'_

“Let’s go home,” Tsukishima decides, distant and cold.

“Wait, I gotta pee first,” Yamaguchi lies, and isn’t sure why.

“Don’t do that thing where you disappear in there indefinitely,” Tsukishima warns.

“Sure, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi promises, all smiles. He closes Tsukishima’s still open hand around the pink gumball. “Here’s your gum. Wait outside for me?”

Before Tsukishima can reply he’s inside. The door clicks closed behind him with a jingle of the shop bell. He stands lost in front of the register.

Anger isn’t an emotion Yamaguchi processes well. Its energy thrums through him. He can’t contain it. It overflows. It does nothing to erase his anxieties. The feeling is more of a calm resignation to fear.

As he sees it he has two options regarding to how direct this energy. He can turn right, make his way to the bathroom in the back, and stare at himself in the mirror for a while, telling himself he’s too ugly to live. He can turn left, and defend his pride.

He turns left.

 _‘Here I am, acting tough,’_ he mourns. _‘What a joke.’_

They don’t look that tough. But Yamaguchi isn’t stupid enough to look at them and think, _‘They aren’t the kind for physical violence.’_ If punches are thrown he’s going down. Even if Tsukishima was next to him he is rather dweeby and useless when it comes to fighting with anything other than words.

Knowing this, he walks right up to their table, like it’s perfectly natural for him to stand there with one hand nervously tapping their tabletop. Their conversation goes quiet. They look at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

“Um, excuse me. Hello,” he starts.

“What?” one of them asks, but he’s not sure who.

It doesn’t matter. If he could take his eyes off the tabletop his anxiety and anger would probably make their faces a blur anyway.

He does not care that he’s shaking and stammering. “Did you just-- Did you just say something to me, by the door? I’m not sure I caught that. Just… um… what did you say?”

“Don’t worry about it, dude. I was just talking to my friend here,” one of them tells him and there is offhanded condescension in his lie.

“Yes, I under-- I understand,” he says as he sits down at the empty seat in their booth. He’s a little dizzy and he doesn’t want to stand anymore. He puts his gumballs on the table. They start to roll away, so he’s distracted for a moment collecting them. “But, please say it again so I can hear you. You know… uh… while you’re looking at me, if you don’t mind.”

The guys are dumbfounded by his behavior. Their discomfort at his overwhelming anxiety is palpable. That’s exactly what he wants. They should see what their words do to people.

Also, the gumballs keep rolling away so he takes a set of utensils from the center of the table and uses them a little coralle for them. His trembling makes the metal fork click, click, click against the knife. The silence stretches on a little too long for his liking.

Yamaguchi doesn’t shut up.

“You’re having trouble remembering. It’s a violent word, nasty, one that scares me so much it makes my hands shake like this.” When he holds them up to demonstrate he notices that in addition to trembling they are dyed bright colors in some spots, from his gumballs. He continues almost conversationally, not looking up from his work herding the gumballs, “I bet-- I bet it could even make me cry, if you’re into that kind of thing. I haven’t done that in a very long time, not over something like this. But, you see, this is all very new to me.”

The purple gumball escapes his corral. He reaches across the table to retrieve it.

“Thanks,” he tells the guy whose personal space he invades to pluck the gumball off his place setting before it falls into his lap. None of them say anything so he keeps talking. The more he talks the easier it becomes. However, he continues to cast his eyes downward. “Maybe you could go over and say it to my friend waiting outside. It’ll hurt me worse if you say it to him.”

“What the hell? What’s your problem, man?”

Voice pressed soft and quivering over anxiety at the prospect of the shiner he fully expects to walk away with Yamaguchi nonetheless goes for broke, “I want to know what it was you said, you see, before I ask exactly what sort of degenerate trash brought you up to speak like that to people. They must have been dreadful cowards.”

With this he considers his pride defended. Honestly, if one of them does deck him it will just seal his victory over the moral high ground. He almost wants them to hit him.

 _‘Go on. Get it over with,’_ he thinks and tries not to flinch. _‘Make my day, low-life.’_

It doesn’t work. He draws a deep breath to provoke them further. There’s movement at the table. He flinches spectacularly, body tight and drawn in toward his core. His gumballs clatter in their pen.

Nobody hits him.

“Honestly, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima says behind him. He blows a big, pink, unimpressed bubble and snaps it. He sounds bored. “I thought I told you to make it quick. I want to go home now.”

Tsukishima’s touch is firm and reassuring on his shoulder. Yamaguchi leans into it thinking, _‘Meet Tsukishima Kei, Patron Saint of Trashtalk, here to deliver my soul. I knew the very moment I laid eyes on him he was some sort of vengeful angel. Beautiful, isn’t he? Every night I, his only acolyte, bow my head to him in lonesome prayer, if you know what I mean.’_

“Eh… heh, heh,” Yamaguchi laughs his relief. He’s drunk with fear and anger. “I’m sorry, Tsukki.”

“Shut up,” Tsukishima snaps but his touch is still reassuring. With a formal smile that is as wide as it is cold he bows courteously and ingratiates himself to the table, “Apologies for my boyfriend. He’s always been a scrappy little fairy. I should keep him on a shorter leash. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be leaving. Please have a nice night, gentlemen.”

He leaves the gumballs on the table. Tsukishima got his pink one already anyway so the rest don’t matter. Without him there to herd them they fall onto the floor and scatter. Nobody stoops to pick them up.

 _‘Yeah! You slayed ‘em with that smile, Tsukki,’_ Yamaguchi with thinks with admiration driven somewhat hysterical by his emotional exhaustion. Tsukishima steers him away through the diningroom by his elbow. _‘You regal motherfucker... yes. You’re magnificent. Glorious, really. Perfect. God Tsukki, I’m so goddamn gay for you, goddamnit. I think I love you.’_

Their retreat is dignified. Tsukishima walks him out the door and down the street unhurriedly, as though nothing happened.

“Are they following us?” Tsukishima asks once they’re a good distance away.

“No,” Yamaguchi answers immediately because he knows immediately. His guard is up.

“Goddamnit, Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima allows himself to relax. “This is exactly why you were always wailed on. You don’t have any idea when to shut up. It’s like you want to get your teeth knocked out. I, on the other hand, like my teeth. I’d rather they stay in my face. I thought you were over this shit.”

“It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought that sort of thing would be,” Yamaguchi muses dreamily, feeling sort of hollow and cold as the adrenaline that was fueling him fades. “It still sucked… but...”

The rain has stopped but it’s the time of year that the temperature really drops at night. The streets are still wet. Oil slicking the tiny pools between the gravel in the pavement shines opalescent with the glow of the street lamps.

He’s still shaking. Noticing this Tsukishima offers his scarf.

Yamaguchi takes it without argument. “Thanks.”

“You’re out of your mind,” he gripes, but there is admiration burning under the complaint.

“Thanks,” Yamaguchi repeats with a rueful smile.

Tsukishima stuffs his hands in his pockets. He playfully checks Yamaguchi with his shoulder. “Shut up, Yamaguchi.”

“Sorry, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says as he stumbles, even though he regrets absolutely nothing. Tsukishima clearly feels better now.

They’re quiet for some time. Once Yamaguchi feels brave he offers Tsukishima his hand. Tsukishima takes it and laces their fingers together. They walk home together in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //unbuckles you from your roller coaster seat// Did you have fun? Do you need a cookie? A blanket? A hug?
> 
> If so, follow me on le tumblr: [winplaceshow](http://winplaceshow.tumblr.com). I'm friendly. I like it when people shout their HQ! headcanons at me. So please don't be afraid to say hello.
> 
> Happy Valentines Day, everyone!!


	6. It Isn't a Hardship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short update to let you all know that I am still in fact working on this and am not dead.

From that point forward, no matter what the weather, Yamaguchi walks Tsukishima home from practice. Everyday they hold hands from just outside the gate of the school to the bottom of Tsukishima’s driveway, where they suck face in the dark. It’s the best part of Yamaguchi’s day. He looks forward to it from the moment he wakes up in the morning.

Tsukishima likes to lace their fingers together loosely. It’s similar to the gesture Tsukishima makes with his hands when he’s lost in thought, laced together in front of him or behind his back. It makes him feel like Tsukishima is thinking the exact same thing he’s thinking, _‘Hey, sometimes I think we are extensions of one another. Two people, one soul.’_

Yamaguchi would never say that, of course.

Still, he couldn’t be happier. He squeezes Tsukishima’s hand. The streets are empty. The trees in the moonshine are a dark lattice. The fall air is cool and silent except for the shuffle of their footsteps and vibrant electronic beat vibrating from Tsukishima’s headphones.

Passing under a yellow pool of light cast by a streetlamp makes Yamaguchi feel like they are two actors on a stage, the only two people in the world. He wants to at least suggest what he’s daydreaming about all week: _‘Let’s make a nice memory. Get out your spare pair of headphones and the splitters, put something slow on and let’s dance. I think I love you.’_

Yamaguchi looks at Tsukishima. Tsukishima looks at Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi thinks maybe, today, he might be brave enough to ask.

Then Tsukishima says, face blank, gaze unwavering behind his glasses, “How often do you jerk off?”

If a foley artist were to create a soundboard for his life Yamaguchi would ask that the rip of a needle off a spinning record be included for every time Tsukishima feels the need to say something inappropriate for no discernible reason: _‘Zzzt!’_

 _‘Goddamnit, Tsukki!’_ he thinks. _‘Did you fail to notice we were about to have a moment?’_

“Excuse you,” Yamaguchi shrills, disengaging their hands like Tsukishima’s rudeness makes his skin burn to the touch. “That was uncalled for.”

With his eyes narrowed and his pout sour Tsukishima is the posterchild for truculence. He is King of the Brats, the brattiest brat that has ever bratted, is bratting, or will brat in this or any other universe. Boy oh boy, does the world ever owe Tsukishima big time.

“Chill out and tell me,” he insists.

“I don’t know,” Yamaguchi mumbles down at his feet because he hates it when Tsukishima tells him to relax. It makes him feel so uncool. He is not such a prude that he is embarrassed when it comes to talking about sex, he tells himself. Don’t be ridiculous! He was just caught off guard. That’s all. Shamefaced, he admits, “Once a day. I guess. Sometimes twice if I’m stressed... which is most of the time really, if I’m being honest with myself.”

He chuckles bashfully and scratches the back of his head. When he says it aloud it sounds like sort of a lot. But he doesn’t know for sure because, unlike some people, he’s never been so discourteous as to inquire about his friends’ mastrabrtory habits!

“Hm,” Tsukishima acknowledges. He falls quiet.

Tsukishima has myriad shades of quiet. This is an _‘ask me what I’m thinking’_ quiet. 

As per protocol, Yamaguchi dogs at Tsukishima’s heels and asks, “What? What is it?”

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t answer. Instead he offers his hand again with such cool confidence that Yamaguchi takes it even though they are only steps from Tsukishima’s house. 

“Oh, you know,” Tsukishima replies with a smug smile, head held high. “I was just thinking that it isn’t a _hardship_ for most people to survive more than twenty-four hours without _diddling_ themselves. You should try it.”

Tsukishima is the sort of person who likes to walk right up to people’s boundaries and stand there, toes on the line just to prove he’s found them. Scratch that, he likes to drive verbal tank up to people’s boundaries and sit idly with the threat, as though others should feel thankful that he in his infinite kindness has selected not to lay waste to their ego. 

Yamaguchi knows this because he has lived with it for years. He is Tsukishima’s biggest fan. That doesn’t mean it isn’t tiresome sometimes.

He fires a warning shot back, snarking as they come to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, “That’s very insightful, Tsukki. Thank you.”

“I know. You’re very welcome, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima agrees and pulls Yamaguchi around so they’re facing one another in the shadows of the large shrubs by his mailbox. “But that wasn’t a suggestion. I want you to keep your hands off yourself until I tell you otherwise.”

“No! I mean… Why?” he frowns, because he’s certainly not pouting, and because he is just as stubborn as his best friend, especially when it comes to routine.

Tsukishima reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. With a sharp gasp, Yamaguchi closes his eyes against this and tells himself to be strong. 

During their recent make out sessions Tsukishima has set about systematically ferreting out each and every angle of unfair advantage. It’s as though he believes displays of affection are a zero sum game, the goal of which is to reduce one’s opponent to blathering nonsense, and Tsukishima means to win.

As it turns out, Yamaguchi’s ears are very sensitive. He can’t think straight when Tsukishima plays with them. Tsukishima, of course, has begun using this as his own personal trump card.

Hands in his pockets, Tsukishima leans in close as though to share a secret, cheek to cheek almost. Yamaguchi waits, breathless. Tsukishima leaves him to hang.

 _‘He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna kiss your ears. Be strong! Don’t humiliate yourself blabbing about how perfect you think he is,’_ Yamaguchi reminds himself and he winces dweebily. Inside his chucks, his toes curl.

Except, Tsukishima doesn’t kiss him. He whispers, consonants hard and each word pronounced separately, “Why? Because it gets me off.” 

His quiet voice sends a thrill shivering, electric, through Yamaguchi right down to the tips of his fingers. He remembers. He’s not strong. He is very, very weak for Tsukishima.

Yamaguchi makes a strange sound, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper: “Hn-hm.” 

Thinking on this, he realizes that, though it is blissful to have them touched, it isn’t his ears particularly that are weak. It is the fact that he desires and Tsukishima is the one who is desired. Tsukishima’s detachment is his entire but decisive advantage. 

Yamaguchi read somewhere once that everything in the world is about sex except sex, which is about power. Power, really, is having something someone else wants, and Yamaguchi’s hunger for Tsukishima’s affection burns deep and ardent.

“You want to play with me. You want that, right?” Tsukishima asks, still only a breath away.

 _‘Of course I do,’_ Yamaguchi thinks indignantly, dizzy with the feeling that Tsukishima’s words are enchantments that breach shelter of his mind and warp his logic. 

A playful Tsukishima is a happy Tsukishima, and Tsukishima’s pleasure is a universal good. All is right with the world when Tsukishima is pleased. How could he ever forget this basic law of nature? Of course he wants to play. Of course he does!

Yamaguchi puts his hands around Tsukishima’s thin waist. He nods frantically. Already he’s betrayed himself. Distantly he’s ashamed of this, how quickly his resistance crumbles. But that doesn’t really seem to matter.

“You’ll let me have them then? They’re mine now?” Tsukishima continues calmly, steadfast in his intransigence. Still Tsukishima refuses to touch him. 

So, Yamaguchi attempts to satisfy himself stroking his hands adoringly up the flat plane of his stomach, over his chest, to the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. But Tsukishima’s footing is solid. 

“Your orgasms, I own them. They are my property in the same way my books or my headphones are my property. I can do as I like with them. I could take you inside and give you one now or I could amuse myself by making you wait a year while I watch you suffer.”

This game makes perfect sense. Tsukishima is perfect. He’s brilliant. His whim is law. His word is absolute.

“Heh, heh,” Yamaguchi sniggers, like this is all some great joke he’s tipsy with amusement over. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Tsukki.”

Finally, Tsukishima gives the shell of his ear a lazy nip. It hurts. Yamaguchi likes it.

When Tsukishima runs his fingers through his hair and kisses the corner of his mouth he feels like such a very good boy. Taking his face in his hands Tsukishima pets over his freckles with the pads of his thumbs and rubs the tips of their noses together. Yamaguchi feels loved. Yes, he is a creature whose purpose is to have Tsukishima’s kisses bestowed upon him.

“Excellent,” Tsukishima praises, amusement in his voice, and squeezes the tips of his fingers. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Yamaguchi echos dumbly, mind blown.

Watching Tsukishima make his way up the driveway Yamaguchi wants to run after him, take his hand, put it back on his head and beg, _‘Again! Pet me again. Tease me again. Praise me again! I’ll do anything. Please. Please stroke my hair again!’_

But Tsukishima’s front door clicks closed and leaves him alone on the quiet street, asking himself exactly why he just agreed to those terms. 

_‘This is how the devil buys souls,’_ he thinks despondently of Tsukishima’s talent for inveiglement.

“How does he do that?” he asks the empty air.

Too tired from the day to process, he turns around and heads home. Even though he tries not to think too hard, he has the sinking feeling that he is a dead man walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry anymore.


	7. Contemptuous of Taboo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, Jaz has put much love into recording a podcast version of Stoplights. [Check it out.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3785893)
> 
> [Also, come shout at me on my blog.](https://www.winplaceshow.tumblr.com) The anon box is open. But, you gotta be nice.

Tsukishima doesn’t bring up what they agreed upon for the next few days. It’s as though he assumes Yamaguchi’s obedience. He’s correct to do so. Yamaguchi follows Tsukishima’s instructions exactly.

It isn’t so bad. After denying himself three evening wanks and three morning wanks, Yamaguchi does not instantly devolve into some randy barbarian. He does, however, begin to have difficulty paying attention in class.

 _‘Just look at that perfect ass,’_ Yamaguchi thinks fondly, face resting lazily in his palm as he watches Tsukishima complete a math problem at the blackboard. _‘I wanna bite it. Not hard though, just test how firm it is with my teeth. Like, ‘Grrr.’ I love that ass. Damn, that ass. I probably wouldn’t mind eating that ass. I think might be a butt-muncher, literally.’_

The bell rings. He keeps staring as the rest of the class packs their belongings, even though this requires him to look over his shoulder. When their eyes catch Tsukishima glares at him in displeasure, as though he should be ashamed for so openly ogling.

 _‘What up, hottie?’_ Yamaguchi thinks instead of feeling ashamed, and smiles. He refrains from an eyebrow waggle, but just barely.

Tsukishima clicks his tongue.

On second thought, maybe denying himself his morning wank did get to him a little bit.

As soon as the classroom clears out Yamaguchi turns around in his seat and says, “Hey, Tsukki. Hey.”

Tsukishima already has a book open. The cover has a woman with pretty shoulders on it; _just_ her pretty shoulders, and her unnaturally slim, corseted waist. It doesn’t look like something Tsukishima should have brought to school. Yamaguchi doesn’t comment.

Without looking up from the book or waiting to hear Yamaguchi’s question Tsukishima responds, “I’m busy.”

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he mumbles, disappointed, and sits straight again. He fidgets. At the very least he needs to ask! You never get what you want if you don’t ask! He twists back around and repeats, “Hey, Tsukki.”

Instead of telling him to shut up Tsukishima levels him look of smoldering annoyance. Yamaguchi counts this as a personal victory. All attention from Tsukishima is a victory.

Tsukishima has been a little touchier than usual today. Yamaguchi understands. He has good days and he has bad days, just like everyone else.

“Tsukki, let’s go up to the roof and…” Here he trails off. How’s he supposed to put this politely, _‘Attempt to lick one another’s tonsils?’_

Tsukishima feigns innocence. “And what?”

“And… you know…” He makes a vaguely rude gesture that he hopes Tsukishima will know means, _‘Attempt to lick one another’s tonsils.’_

“Diddle one another?” Tsukishima translates, unimpressed, and flips a page.

Yamaguchi thinks the sun shines out Tsukishima’s ass. The way the lazy afternoon light glimmers off Tsukishima’s glasses and presses his long shadow up to the wall on the other side of the room is beautiful. He wishes he could remember it forever. But, at the same time, he wishes Tsukishima would stop using words like _‘diddle’_ all the time.

“Yeah… let’s just… for a little bit...”

 _‘Who, exactly, do I think I’m kidding?’_ Yamaguchi wonders. He’s so horny he can hardly stand it. His desperation is probably radiating off him like heat bounces from pavement in the summertime, in crinkled cellophane waves.

“I don’t want to,” Tsukishima responds with an air of finality. “It’s cold out.”

“But...” he argues weakly, not really sure what to say to convince Tsukishima. Mentally he finishes the sentence, _‘But, I’m so hungry, Tsukki. I’m so hungry.’_ “May I sit close to you?”

“Why do you think you need permission?” Tsukishima responds.

Hooking the leg of the chair in front of him with his foot, he pulls it noisily out for Yamaguchi to sit.

Yamaguchi just about wrecks himself tripping over the row of desks separating them in his haste to sit where he indicated before he changes his mind.

“Calm down,” Tsukishima tells him and goes back to reading, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Yamaguchi squirms in his new seat. He doesn’t want to do his homework. Overflowing with nervous energy, he can’t seem to focus. Instead of working, he pretends his pencils are drumsticks and his math textbook a drum pad, and he taps his energy out.

This doesn’t seem to achieve anything other than irritating the ever-living hell out of Tsukishima. He can practically feel Tsukishima’s stink eye boring holes into the back of his skull. It sort of itches.

“Stop that,” Tsukishima snips.

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he chuckles and sets his pencils down.

Sitting still is anguish. Unable to occupy his mind, he worries. Maybe he is one of those neurotic people who requires sexual release to soothe their nerves. This could become a problem. His life was awkward and inelegant enough an experience without popping inappropriate boners left and right!

He gazes down into the courtyard. Nishinoya, chased by Tanaka, bursts out of the emergency exit of the gym, and bolts through the yard. Yamaguchi cranes his neck to get a better look. They disappear into the cafeteria, laughing.

Yamaguchi goes back to steadfastly ignoring his hunger. How long is Tsukishima going to torture him? What if he starts foaming at the mouth, speaking in tongues, falls over dead from blue balls? What a humiliating way to go! He wouldn’t want to cause his family any trouble!

Outside, Nishinoya tears ass through the yard. Tanaka tears ass through the yard after him. Other students part as they pass, throwing up their hands and shouting their annoyance. The second years run through the west entrance of the school. Yamaguchi loses sight of them.

 _’Weird,’_ he observes.

Yamaguchi briefly wonders why Ennoshita isn’t babysitting them before he returns to wondering if coroners see sexual frustration related fatalities often. He imagines his funeral will have to be closed casket as he’s heard that men can maintain erections after death. He makes a mental note to address a preemptive apology letter to his grandmother after practice, as well as a last will and testament.

Nishinoya dashes down the hall past the classroom waving his gakuran like a flag and hollering, “Run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me! I’m the gingerbread man!”

Tanaka power skips down the hall after him.

 _‘Weirder,’_ Yamaguchi revises.

They’re running from the east end of the building toward the west end, which is odd given that they entered through the west end minutes before.

Yamaguchi stares out the window at the birds on the electric wires strung beside the school, perched like beer cans on a fence, instead of asking Tsukishima what he thinks is going on with the second years.

It happens again. Nishinoya scares the birds into flight by bursting through the doors to the gym. He tears ass through the yard, disappears into the cafeteria, tears ass through the yard once more, and enters the school building on the west side. Tanaka is hot on his heels the whole way.

A few minutes later they run down the first year corridor traveling west.

Nishinoya sing-songs, “Run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me! I’m the gingerbread man!”

A teacher yells, “Stop that, Nishinoya!”

Nishinoya doesn’t stop. Nishinoya will stop when he’s dead.

Tanaka power walks down the hall after him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his uniform, whistling this time as though that makes him look less suspicious.

They disappear into the first years’ boys’ lavatory, and don’t spend more than thirty seconds in there before they pop back out and dash away down the hall again.

 _‘What the fuck?’_ Yamaguchi wonders and begins to watch the back doors to the gym.

As predicted, Nishinoya throws the gym doors open a third time.

Yamaguchi waits for them to make their way upstairs.

Nishinoya dances past. Tanaka swaggers past.

Yamaguchi steals out of the classroom without tripping over himself and without argument from Tsukishima and follows them into the boys’ room.

Holding his breath, he pushes the door open softly. The second years are sitting on the floor studying what appears to be a map, backs to him. They are too absorbed in it to notice his soft footsteps.

“Wait! Get this!” Tanaka claps his hand over Nishinoya’s shoulder. “What if instead of me being a fox and you being the gingerbread man… I’m a lion and you’re a zebra?”

“Brilliant, Ryuu!” Nishinoya enthuses. “I love it. Jot that down, would ya?”

This is the happiest he’s seen Nishinoya since he and Tsukishima started dating.

“What are you doing?” Yamaguchi asks quietly.

The second years startle. Their heads snap up.

“The hell!” Tanaka swears. “Yamaguchi, you’re silent as death! Creepy.”

Nishinoya’s expression sours. He snaps, and it’s very strange given how childish he is, the air of authority he has sometimes, “None of your business what we’re doing. Get out of here.”

“My bad,” Yamaguchi soothes with a queasy smile and backs out of the room as quietly as he entered. He doesn’t want another fight. “Sorry.”

Feeling like he’s been scolded, he slinks back to Tsukishima with his tail between his legs.

“What was that about?” Tsukishima asks, but could not sound more disinterested in the answer.

Yamaguchi sits heavily in his seat by the window. “I honestly have no idea.”

He twiddles his thumbs and waits for Nishinoya to burst from the gym again. He waits a long while. Nishinoya doesn’t appear again. The tick-tick of the clock is painful.

When he thinks he can’t take it anymore he glances back at Tsukishima.

And he notices something odd.

Tsukishima is making his _‘I am very pleased’_ face straight into his book. His usually distant eyes are alive with curiosity.

Yamaguchi turns in his chair. “Are you enjoying that book, Tsukki?”

Tsukishima’s eyebrows tick up. His lips part slightly. He nods mutely, just once.

 _‘Cute,’_ Yamaguchi observes hungrily, and wants to eat him alive.

Most people take the fact that he can manage peevish Tsukishima, has created an art form out of making inflammatory remarks, as a testament to his character. However, it is also most decidedly a testament against it.

Knowing he’s dancing dangerously close to provoking Tsukishima into lashing out like a viper, he presses, “What was that? It’s good? You like it?”

Tsukishima nods again, transfixed by his book, and hums, “Mm-hm.”

Whatever he’s reading must be good. Yamaguchi ducks his head to take a look at the blurb on the back cover. It reads:

 

> “Most of us are familiar with the term _masochism_ , but fewer have read the story that gave name to the fetish: Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s novella _Venus in Furs_. Published in Stuttgart, Germany, in 1870, it is a foundational work of modern culture, defining a sexual perversion while offering a critical lens through which to view persistent structures of masculinity and power. As a literary experiment it pushes the conventions of language and desire to their limits.”

 

Suspicion confirmed; Tsukishima brought a book to school that he shouldn’t have.

“Tsukki, are you reading smut at school?” Yamaguchi teases.

“Nuh-uh,” Tsukishima shakes his head, too distracted to lie artfully.

When he gets like this, finds something he cannot feign disinterest in, he’s just like he was when they first met. Tsukishima does his best to conceal his innocence but his curiosity, covetous in its intensity, is endearingly childlike.

“Are you lying to me?” Yamaguchi prompts gently, overwhelmed by a wave of affection that could have rolled straight out of an ocean made warm by the sun.

Tsukishima shrugs. “Mm.”

A self-amused half-smile quirks on his lips. Yamaguchi is mesmerized by the curve of it. With his eyes hooded as he gazes down to read, quietly pleased with his book, it is somehow obscene. Yes, Tsukishima’s wicked mind shines when used as a vehicle for subversion.

“Read me your smut, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi suggests, and is surprised at himself.

“ _Not_ smut,” Tsukishima complains and draws the book closer to himself.

Yamaguchi doesn’t believe him. “What is it then?”

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. So Yamaguchi lays his hands softly over Tsukishima’s and brings them together, closing the book between their sandwiched fingers. Tsukishima seems to come back to himself, as though rudely awakened from a pleasant dream.

“It’s a novel whose author was contemptuous of taboo,” he responds, snappishly. The calculating way Tsukishima’s eyes flash behind their black frames and flick over his face makes Yamaguchi want to fidget. “Do you really want me to read to you?”

Yamaguchi glances down and away, bashful suddenly now that he’s getting the attention he wanted, “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Then turn around,” Tsukishima suggests, as though issuing a dare, “and put your hands on the desk.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t understand. “Huh?”

“I want to be mean to you now,” Tsukishima clarifies, only a little testy.

“Oh, right!” Yamaguchi agrees. “Of course!”

He’s such an airhead sometimes! He does as he is told swiftly in unspoken apology for his foolishness.

The creaky legs of the desk behind him groan a complaint under Tsukishima’s weight. Yamaguchi turns to look. He likes the way the fastened buttons of Tsukishima’s uniform define in gold pinpoints the relaxed slope of his body.

 _‘Turn around,’_ Tsukishima mouths silently down at him.

 _‘But, you’re pretty and I want to look at you,’_ Yamaguchi thinks and pouts up at him.

As though to say, _‘I don’t care,’_ Tsukishima adjusts Yamaguchi’s head so he’s facing the blackboard.

Yamaguchi listens to Tsukishima flipping pages and thinks happily, _‘It’s amazing how much we can say without words!’_

“It’s told from the point of view of the masochistic character. He’s having a conversation with the woman whom he wants to debase him,” Tsukishima informs him, and leans down to spread his hands a touch further. “In this scene they’re just diddling around, or whatever.”

 _‘Goddamnit, Tsukki,’_ Yamaguchi thinks but, tense with anticipation, still sniggers at the word ‘diddle’.

Tsukishima begins to read. As he does so, he walks his fingers up Yamaguchi’s spine. “ _‘What beautiful eyes you have,’ she said softly, ‘and especially when you suffer. Are you very unhappy?’_ ”

The playful peaks and valleys of Tsukishima’s voice when he reads are almost as nice as when he teases people. Tsukishima tangles a hand in his hair and tugs lightly.

Yamaguchi gasps. Inside his kicks his toes curl.

Just like that, there’s a pleasant weight to his body, like he’s on the edge of sleep. His thoughts are replaced with an equally pleasant empty drone, like that of silence. They’re dulled, as though they’ve been plunged under water. The abruptness of shift would be alarming, if the shift itself wasn’t so soothing.

Tsukishima continues: “ _I answer, ‘It is my unhappiness that I love you more and more madly the worse you treat me, and the more frequently you betray me. You are cruel. I shall die of pain and love and jealousy.’_ ”

Somehow carelessly, Tsukishima uses the hand tangled in Yamaguchi’s hair to tip his head back.

The way he pulls doesn’t hurt, but it does arch his back uncomfortably. Every muscle pulls tight. Yamaguchi struggles to right himself. Tsukishima pulls again, more sharply. The second time it does hurt.

“Ah!” Yamaguchi flinches, but stays as Tsukishima arranged him.

He feels like he’s been punished. It turns him on. Arousal pools low and sweet in his belly. His breathing seems, to his own ears, shallow and ragged. He tries to breathe more quietly and hopes nobody walks in on them.

“Relax. I only want you to stay like that so I can pet you,” Tsukishima tells him. For some reason he sounds amused. He brushes the pads of his fingers against Yamaguchi’s mouth. “Inside, here.”

Unsure of himself, Yamaguchi opens his mouth just enough to let Tsukishima breach his lips.

“Like that,” Tsukishima confirms.

In light, slow circles Tsukishima strokes over the soft tip of his tongue and draws spit out to slick his bottom lip. There’s something mildly degrading about the fact that he chooses to use his middle finger. Ink etched into the tiny grooves, it tastes bitter.

He reads on, “ _Yes, I am cruel but am I not entitled to be so?’ she responds excitedly. ‘The more devoted a woman shows herself, the sooner a man sobers down and becomes domineering._ ”

Tsukishima pets deeper, skates over the smooth groove that runs down the middle of his tongue. The steady rhythm is satisfying.

“Nn,” Yamaguchi hums, and squirms in his seat.

It’s goddamn vular, the way his dick strains and leaks against the fabric of his trousers.

His heart clatters at the thought that, at this angle, there’s nothing preventing Tsukishima from glancing down to see exactly how big he is when he’s hard. It isn’t as though Tsukishima is ignorant of what he’s packing, but modesty dictates he cover himself. He creeps his hands along the desk toward his midline.

Tsukishima continues: “ _The worse she uses him, the less pity she shows him, the more wantonly she plays with him, by so much more will she increase his desire, be adored, be worshiped by him._ ”

Tsukishima adds another finger, and fucks deeper. There is no other word for it. Tsukishima fucks his mouth deliberately, thoughtfully almost.

One fractured thought wavers through the haze of his arousal, _‘Feels good, Tsukki.’_

“ _A man so used will look up to a woman with the ectatic burning eye of the martyr. What you call cruelty--_ ”

Tsukishima pauses.

“Oops. Your hands moved,” he notes.

Yamaguchi laces his fingers together as though he’s begging, _‘Don’t make me put them back.’_

In response Tsukishima presses his fingers deep. They hit the soft flesh at the back of his throat.

Making what must be a moronic face, wincing almost, one eye half closed, Yamaguchi whimpers a complaint at this treatment: “Hn…”

Tsukishima does it again, harder this time, and Yamaguchi fights not to gag. A third time he does gag. Yamaguchi spreads his hands. To demonstrate his compliance, he slams them back down on the desk.

Tsukishima looks him over. Ashamed, Yamaguchi casts his eyes away.

Apparently satisfied with his work, Tsukishima hooks his fingers to pet gently over the sensitive roof of Yamaguchi’s mouth. It feels so nice his fingernails scrabble against the desktop.

“ _What you call cruelty is simply the passionate element of love,_ ” Tsukishima concludes.

Tsukishima draws his fingers out slowly. He seems to take great pleasure in stretching the string of spit that comes with them as far out as it will go. The string pops and drool dribbles down his chin.

Tsukishima is nasty. It’s glorious.

“You can relax now,” Tsukishima informs him, regarding his wet fingers curiously. “I’m done.”

“Hm,” Yamaguchi acknowledges. His neck hurts. He rolls it, then he wipes his mouth.

Tsukishima wants to know: “Did you like that?”

He did. It was satiating. He’s very tired now, and very horny but his desire isn’t as urgent as it was before. The ache is warm. He wants to bask in it. It makes him feel he’s floating. He puts his head down on the desk.

“Well?” Tsukishima prompts.

 _‘What am I experiencing?’_ he wonders distantly.

The feeling is delicate. He doesn’t want to shatter it with words. So, he waves vaguely then gives a thumbs up.

“You’re speechless,” Tsukishima translates.

The clock tells him they have another 20 minutes until practice. He is going to take one hell of a power nap. Sleep almost has him when Tsukishima decides to interrupt by reaching out to balance something on his head.

Yamaguchi groans another complaint, “Hn…”

“For you,” Tsukishima explains.

Yamaguchi gropes for the offending object. It’s the book, open over his hair like a hat. He snorts.

The inscription on the flyleaf reads:

 

> Enjoy, pervert.  
>  \- Tsukki

 

Sleepily, Yamaguchi responds, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Tsukishima answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //curled in a tiny ball//
> 
> Don't look at me. I'm ashamed. 
> 
> Clearly, I’ve stopped trying to make this anything other than wildly self-indulgent.


	8. Charlie Foxtrot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Follow me on tumblr and we can cry about HQ! together.](http://winplaceshow.tumblr.com)   
>  This chapter is utter shit. Please forgive me.

Thereafter Yamaguchi notes a marked uptick in how often he checks out his classmates. Boys, girls -- he can’t seem to help himself. He worries for his grades. Sitting still all day through class is agony and he wishes he had blinders like a horse because the sad truth is he’s stupid when he’s horny.

At practice, he’s thankful that they warm up by running laps around the track, even though the sky threatens rain. Yamaguchi thinks they do this because it’s easier for Sugawara and Sawamura to keep everyone in line running in circles than it is to keep them in line while engaging in more complex activities, like playing frisbee. It must be hard to be captain.

But, Yamaguchi’s got his own problems.

He fears his hormones will sublimate, thereby driving the ambient levels of boyish mischief among his teammates from disorderly to lawless. So he runs downwind of everyone, all by himself toward the back of the pack. It’s the least he can do to make things easier on Sawamura.

The view is better from behind anyhow.

He imagines himself dressed as a sleazy used car salesman, in a cheap suit with a nametag, like he sees sometimes in annoying television commercials that play late night on the local stations: _’Welcome to Tadashi’s Bum Emporium! We are here to service all of your bum needs, whatever they may be! We aim to please!’_

He appreciates Tanaka’s butt for a moment. _‘We’ve got beefcake butts!’_

He turns to look at Sugawara’s butt. _‘We’ve got bubble butts!’_

He glances at Azumane’s butt. _‘We’ve got bara butts!’_

Then he spends an awfully long time studying Nishinoya’s butt. _‘We even have miniature twink butts! They’re a fan favorite!’_

“Ehehe,” he giggles to himself, and tries to look away but is unsuccessful.

He stumbles over himself. Accident prone on a good day, maybe the back isn’t the best place for him when he’s feeling so easily distractible. So, he races to the front, with Hinata and Kageyama. The crunch of the fall leaves under his sneakers and the bounce the rubberized track gives his stride is satisfying.

He hasn’t jogged more than ten paces between them before Hinata starts staring at him, mouth agape. Maybe the front isn’t the best place for him either. Yamaguchi mourns the continual fact that he cannot have a moment’s peace and does his best to ignore his teammate.

Hinata makes a frustrated little humming noise, like he wants to ask a question and is trying very hard to work out how.

Seeing no other out, Yamaguchi politely prompts,“Um… Yes?”

“Where’s Tsukishima?” Hinata asks, somewhat belligerently. “Where’d he go? He does this every week.”

 _‘Not this again,’_ Yamaguchi silently mourns. People at school, girls especially, treat him like he is Tsukishima’s emissary. It gets old.

“Well, here is he, huh?” Hinata badgers. “I know you know where he goes. Why’s he cutting practice?”

Tsukishima, it just so happens, is attending his psychiatry appointment, like he has every Wednesday for nearly a year. One would think that at their age Hinata would have realized that if someone excuses themselves discreetly from a group in this way, and nobody talks about why, that it is inappropriate to bring it up in conversation.

Yamaguchi tries, and fails, not to sound too defensive when he responds, “Tsukki would never cut practice!”

Hinata doesn’t buy it. “Oh, yeah? Where is he then?”

Yamaguchi doesn’t know how to answer. After all, it’s none of Hinata’s business. But, the way Hinata is looking at him is making him uncomfortable.

He settles for explaining in a hushed tone, “He’s at the doctor.”

Hinata doesn’t seem to understand and he doesn’t know when to stop. Then again, he never knows when to stop. At least his concern is sort of sweet. “He has to go to the doctor every week? Is he sick? What’s wrong with him?”

Kageyama breaks his silence to bark, “Can it, dumbass!”

He reaches across Yamaguchi to try to smack Hinata. He misses. Yamaguchi barely dodges Hinata’s counterattack. He wants to grab their wrists and hold them up to scold, _‘Stop it’_ the way Sugawara does sometimes.

“Why you gotta be like that?” Hinata complains noisily. “Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to have a conversation with Yamaguchi?”

Kageyama looks like he’s constipated by the frustration of trying to attempting to explain the social intricacies of Hinata’s faux pas. It’s the worst, painful to watch. “You’re not supposed to-- That’s not-- You can’t just--”

Yamaguchi translates for Kageyama, “It’s a personal question, Hinata.”

“Oh,” Hinata responds, syllable drawn out, as though this is a revelation to him. “Okay.”

They run on in silence. Yamaguchi’s lungs are burning. He doesn’t know how the other first years have so much stamina. Maybe the non-college track classes get naptime during the school day, lucky bastards. Right when he’s about to peel away to jog at the back of the group again, Hinata puts his little hand out and stops him.

The sobriety he levels at Yamaguchi makes him look like a kid who is trying to be their best to demonstrate their maturity to an adult, and is failing, but still somehow thinks they’re doing a pretty good job of it.

“Does he… does he have cancer?” Hinata wants to know. “Is he gonna die? Is that why he’s such a prick all the time, and why he’s so skinny? I’d be pissed off too, if I was gonna die.”

Kageyama mutters, “Goddamnit, Hinata.”

“He doesn’t have cancer,” Yamaguchi can’t help but laugh. Hinata’s airheaded earnestness is endearing sometimes.

“So, he’s going to be okay?” Hinata continues. He really appears to need the reassurance.

It makes Yamaguchi feel affectionate toward him, almost. “He’s fine, Hinata.”

“He’d better be fine,” Hinata tells him, with an oddball sort of intensity. “I’d be real upset if he was taken out by anything but me.”

“Yeah,” Kageyama agrees.

Yamaguchi’s not quite sure how to respond.

He doesn’t have to. Hinata flits on to the next topic of conversation, “I bet I could lap you, if I tried, Kageyama.”

He dashes away. Kageyama chases after him.

 _‘Well that conversation was an adventure from start to finish,’_ Yamaguchi thinks, and slows his pace.

The team could produce a pin-up calendar to raise money if they needed to, Yamaguchi is pleased to notice as he lets the rest of them pass him.

Asahi would be January. In his two page New Years spread he would be naked as the day he was born. Standing shoulders slumped bashfully and blushing pink, he would be very embarrassed to only have been given, for modesty's sake, a package of fireworks to cover himself.

 _‘I am a lizard! A trash person, whose thoughts are comprised entirely of garbage!’_ Yamaguchi concludes, disappointed with himself.

In desperation, he tries to outrun his nasty thoughts.

“Watch it, Yamaguchi,” Nishinoya shouts as they almost collide in the clumsiness of Yamaguchi’s haste.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Yamaguchi shrills.

The fact that Tsukishima can torment him this much without lifting a finger is a mindfuck of epic proportions. And yet, this is his own fault! He asked for this! He hoped, and wished, and prayed for it. He is willingly partaking in it.

His breath is loud to his own ears, and his calves ache. He hates sprinting. He sprints anyhow.

The thoughts don’t stop. Ennoshita, it occurs to him for the first time, is sort of cute, too. Yamaguchi doesn’t know why he never noticed before. It’s hard to decide what month he’d be. But, in his picture he would peek out from behind his camera, smiling a playful apology as though to say, _‘I know you’re uncomfortable with me filming you. Please bear it a moment longer. You look divine.’_

Yamaguchi thinks he would probably get a perverse satisfaction out of being looked at like that, and praised by next year’s captain.

“Why?” he pants under his breath, fatigued, and slows. Tanaka passes him.

Tanaka would be May. He would be pictured outdoors in a farmhand motif: jeans slung low on his hips, shirtless, dirty, and glistening with sweat. The embodiment of a wholesome country boy, he would hold a lamb. His proud grin over the young animal would tell the viewer that, doubtlessly, a vein of sweetness underlies his rough exterior.

Yamaguchi wonders if Tanaka uses the juxtaposition in his personality to his advantage in bed.

Sweat sticking his shirt to his back, Yamaguchi runs faster, and passes his teammates again. He wants to exhaust himself.

“Don’t overwork yourself, Yamaguchi,” Sawamura warns. “We still have all evening to practice.”

All evening to practice? He can’t stand this, any of it, a moment longer.

Sawamura, his mind tells him, unbidden, would be December. In a chapel decorated for Christmas, he would be dressed as a priest, with one of those white clerical collars that Yamaguchi finds hot even though he knows that’s wrong. His sleeves would be rolled up to reveal handsome forearms, that would make him want to say, _‘Please forgive me, Father. I have **sinned**.’_

 _‘Just keep running,’_ Yamaguchi repeats to himself like a prayer. _‘One foot in front of another. Easy. Keep running.’_

Tsukishima would be September. He pictures him with the top buttons of his uniform unfastened, bent over in front the blackboard in their classroom, cheek smearing chalk across it, hands bound behind his back, snarling over his shoulder at the indignity of it all.

 _‘When I die, I probably won’t even be recyclable,’_ Yamaguchi agonizes. _‘They’ll just burn everything I’ve ever touched, and perform an exorcism in my room.’_

He slows, and glances at Nishinoya running beside him. Hair combed, eyes forward, the serious look on his face is sort of cute, too.

Yamaguchi thinks Nishinoya would be November. Offerings of toys and sweets laid at his feet, he would be a wild beast of a guardian god, enshrined, lounging on an enormous throne. Robes rich in fall colors, piped in gold, would lay open to reveal his thin chest, and one of his platformed sandals, lacquered black, would dangle playfully from his prettily arched foot. The touch of his small-boned hands would be a blessing. Worshiping them would be a prayer in meditation on all the small creatures in this world that deserve protection. His eyes would say, _‘What are you afraid of? Play with me. I’ll knock you down to size. You’ll like it.’_

Back in reality, Nishinoya shoots him a look of displeasure. “Hey!”

Yamaguchi startles out of his daydream. Adrenaline shivers through him. The way he glances quickly down and away must make him look awfully guilty. He hopes that, rather than having been caught staring, he missed something. It isn’t uncommon that, lost in La La Land, he misses important chunks of conversation.

Feeling he’s walking directly into a landmine, he asks as gently as possible, “Do you need something, Noya-senpai?”

"I don’t know what I did to deserve this, Yamaguchi," Nishinoya informs him, incensed.

“Did to deserve what, exactly?" Yamaguchi answers.

 _‘He saw me staring,’_ he thinks. _‘I’m the worst.’_

Nishinoya’s eyes narrow. “I’ve been watching you. You keep running near me and running away. I know what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

“Please don’t be cross with me!” Yamaguchi pleads, and feels like a horrible pervert. “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself!”

Nishinoya is outraged, "Honestly? You can’t help it?”

Nishinoya has a point. Just because he happens to be randy, doesn’t mean he should make other people uncomfortable.

Yamaguchi is deeply ashamed. He backpedals, “You’re right. I could control myself if I tried. I’m sorry for being so disrespectful. I’ll do better. I’m sorry!”

Nishinoya, for his part, is deeply disappointed. “Jesus, Yamaguchi! What’s the matter with you? You can’t help but _crop dust_ me? Nasty! What did you eat?"

Yamaguchi looks around in confusion only to see that half the team have their shirts pulled up over their noses, the way Tanaka does sometimes. Tentatively, he sniffs the air.

 _‘Oh, that’s what I missed,’_ he realizes. _‘How could I miss that? It’s unholy!’_

Still, how dare Nishinoya try to pin this on him! He may be a lizard person but he would never crop dust! He is not that uncouth! His life may lack dignity but at least he has his manners, and his pride! What’s Nishinoya’s problem recently anyway?

“I’ve never crop dusted anyone in my life, senpai!” Yamaguchi shouts his frustration right in Nishinoya’s silly face. “Gross!”

“This week on The Mystery of the Phantom Farter,” Ennoshita says, seemingly more to himself than anyone else, which is entirely unsurprising because he’s weird like that and always has been. It sounds like he thinks he’s narrating one of those cheesy old detective movies he, for God knows what reason, is always trying to get people to watch. “Tensions grow high and senpai turns on kouhai as--”

Ennoshita keeps on muttering but whatever else he has to say is drowned out by Nishinoya who gripes, “Who exactly do you think you are? Saint Yamaguchi of the Immaculate Colon? Everybody crop dusts! Why are you lying to me?”

Tanaka joins in. He jogs up beside Yamaguchi and greets him with a small flourish of a bow, “Your Serene Highness King Yamaguchi of the Unsullied Bunghole, I regret to inform you that there are two types of people in this world: people who crop dust...”

“...And people who lie!” Nishinoya finishes for him.

"What's crop dusting?" Hinata interrupts.

He sounds winded. He must be after running the entire circuit of the track only to catch up with the team from behind. Kageyama follows close after, looking grumpy to have lost.

It strikes Yamaguchi, the absurdity of how naive Hinata is in comparison with the rest of the team. If Hinata wasn’t freakishly resilient Yamaguchi would worry they were slowly corrupting him.

"Crop dusting," Tanaka tells him lovingly, as though he's a big crow educating his treasured baby crow. "Is when you fart silently then walk away. Or, in Yamaguchi’s case, run away."

 _‘I didn’t!’_ Yamaguchi wants to yell.

He also wants to pull his shirt up over his nose like the other boys. If Tsukishima was there he would probably give him a dirty look for doing that, though, because they’re supposed to pretend to be cool. So, he doesn’t.

“Like a flatulent ninja,” Nishinoya explains somber, as though he has a Ph.D. on the subject, “conducting an olfactory assault.”

 _‘How crass we all are,’_ Yamaguchi thinks, and while mildly upset that the brunt of these jokes are aimed at him, sniggers anyway.

They veer off the track onto the trail that leads back to their gym.

“It's Suga,” Azumane interjects, voice lowered and conspiratorial, like he’s absolutely terrified of being overheard which, knowing Azumane, he probably is. “Suga farts when he runs, whenever he stops eating animal products. The first time he decided to be a vegetarian, in our first year, it was awful. He can’t help it. He--”

“What'd you say about me?” Sugawara snaps from the front of the pack.

“Suga, your insides are rotten,” Tanaka answers, pulling his shirt up over his nose.

“Lay off the spicy tofu, man,” Nishinoya complains bitterly, also pulling his shirt over his nose.

Sugawara blushes up to the tips of his ears. “It's not me!”

Yamaguchi thinks he’s probably lying because he just joined the conversation and shouldn’t really have that exact an idea of what he’s being accused of.

"Are you feeling okay, Suga?" Kageyama inquires gravely.

“Please control yourself, Suga,” Ennoshita requests on behalf of the silent second years contingent.

“Suga didn’t do anything,” Sawamura barks. “Everybody shut up!”

Everyone does shut up.

In this silence Sawamura announces, “It was me.”

As though to demonstrate, he lets one loose. It sounds like a sheet ripping. He’s so proud. He looks to Sugawara for approval. Sugawara is, for a moment, shocked. Then they both snigger.

The team wails a collective, “Dude, no.” They scatter in different directions, along longer routes to the gym.

 _‘Wow. Just look at Sawamura taking the fall for Sugawara,’_ Yamaguchi thinks admiringly and pulls his shirt up over his nose. _‘That’s true love. Relationship goal noted. Man, Sawamura, you got the right idea. I would do anything for a set a set of hips like Sugawara’s even if he does fart like a--’_

At just that moment Yamaguchi’s toe catches on a rock. He knows the second he feels it that there’s nothing he can do to prevent himself from he’s going down hard. His fall is jarring, like the earth itself felt the need to smack some sense into him. He tries to salvage at least some of his dignity by biting back his cry of pain and surprise. Either nobody sees it, or they all think someone else is going to stop to help him because they all keep right on running.

“Uhn,” he groans.

 _‘Thank you, ground. I deserved that,’_ he thinks, and wonders at what point his teenage lizard brain thoughts, and his regular thoughts, merged so seamlessly.

He rolls over. The clouds are engorged and purple. The wind rustles leaves off the trees. He doesn’t bother getting up, or pulling his t-shirt down from over his nose, or inspecting his hands which feel like they might be bleeding.

It’s terrifying that he didn’t even notice the shift. On reflection, Yamaguchi realizes it must have happened sometime in the past week, since Tsukishima started starving him.

Maybe this is Tsukishima’s design. Maybe Tsukishima isn’t denying him simply because it gets him off. Maybe Tsukishima has a long game. He’s using frustration as a catalyst to do… something. Yamaguchi can’t work out what.

He wonders, given how stubborn they both are, how this will end. At the same time, he feels sort of paranoid. He wouldn’t put such an outlandish plan past Tsukishima, but maybe he’s reading too much into this.

Tanaka’s head blots out the sky, “You okay there, buddy? Everybody else went back to the gym. You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No,” Yamaguchi says distractedly, inspecting the dirty, oozing scrapes on the heels of his hands. “I’m fine. Thank you. Just reflecting on my life choices.”

Tanaka squats beside him. He picks at the grass for a wavering moment. He looks like he has something he wants to say. Yamaguchi isn’t sure he wants to hear it.

Tanaka speaks his mind anyhow, plainly, as usual, “Noya sure is cross with you.”

"Yeah," Yamaguchi agrees.  His cuts hurt.

If Tanaka notices this, he doesn't let on.  

"You wanna know a secret?" he asks.  He rocks back on his heels and picks at the grass.

"Sure, Senpai," Yamaguchi says, and brushes a bit of dirt off his hand.  He should probably clean these or they might scar.

“There’s only one way to pacify an angry Noya," Tanaka lets him know. "You must make an offering of no less than two GariGari-kun soda flavored ice pops. Then, you have to apologize… in that order. Ice pops have magic power over him. They make him receptive to reason.”

“Interesting,” Yamaguchi acknowledges, and wishes that didn’t sound so similar to the unconscionable fantasy he just had about Nishinoya, the vengeful guardian god, with his offerings of toys and sweets.

The thought of trying to reason with Nishinoya makes him nervous. Then again, he guesses if he can reason with Tsukishima he can reason with anyone.

Tanaka stands, and offers a hand to help Yamaguchi to his feet. He doesn’t seem to mind much how dirty his hands are, because he doesn’t let go when Yamaguchi has righted himself.

Instead he asks, “So, what are you going to do with this knowledge after practice?”

“Apologize to Nishinoya,” Yamaguchi replies, and shifts uncomfortably.

Tanaka’s smile makes him look like a messed up Cheshire cat. “But first you’re going to…”

“Buy him several ice pops,” Yamaguchi answers, hoping Tanaka will let him go.

It starts to rain. The drizzle patters gently down, percussing over the leaves still left in the trees.

“That’s the ticket!” Tanaka releases him and, as they turn to walk back toward the gym, slaps him hard on the back. “Trust me! You’ll be fine. It’ll be just fine.”

Yamaguchi wonders which one of them Tanaka is saying that to reassure. Without Tsukishima there to distract him he worries about it all through practice. After practice, the rain comes down in sheets, and he hopes everyone will forget about going to Hillside Mart and just head home. He has no such luck.

Damp and shivering in front of the freezer case, he counts pocket money. With the same feeling of vague unease he gets before he visits the doctor, he purchases exactly two Gari-Gari-kun ice pops. That’s all he can afford. Offerings in hand, he wanders the aisles looking for Nishinoya. He isn’t anywhere to be found.

The other second and the third years, however, are all gathered around the tables in the back.

Yamaguchi interrupts their conversation, “Where’s Noya-senpai?”

They all shift uncomfortably.

“Outside,” Tanaka answers.

“Looking for a cat,” Ennoshita adds.

Azumane elaborates, “He’s in a mood.”

“Sometimes you just need to let him wear himself out,” Sugawara advises, gently, as though to make everyone feel better.

 _‘Lovely,’_ Yamaguchi thinks and feels kind of like a moron holding the melting ice pops.  He wanders outside with them.

Yamaguchi would be concerned about Nishinoya’s behavior, if not for the fact that Nishinoya does this every week. He seems to have made friends with a feral cat that lives in the abandoned lot next to Hillside Mart. Children and animals like Nishinoya.

Everyone on the team knows he sneaks cans of tuna from home in his coat pockets to feed her after practice. He named her Charlie Foxtrot and is convinced she’s a boy. A sure fire way to spark an argument with Nishinoya is to point out that Charlie doesn’t have balls.

Literally, Charlie doesn’t have balls. Once Tsukishima talked to Nishinoya for nearly twenty minutes about how because the genetic determination of some coat colors in cats is linked to the X chromosome, calicoes are nearly always female.

But Nishinoya is intractable on the point of Charlie’s gender. Yamaguchi remembers Nishinoya carrying Charlie away from Tsukishima, crooning, _‘Don’t let him judge your you by your genitals, buddy.’_

Rain leaches loamy dirt from the surrounding hills onto the sidewalks and colors the tips of Yamaguchi’s chucks red. Yamaguchi finds Nishinoya crouched next to the vending machines by the door, wearing only a t-shirt despite the cold and the damp.

“Pss, pss, pss,” Nishinoya calls. “Charlie. Here, boy. Come ‘ere.”

“I’m sorry I laughed at you,” Yamaguchi says, instead of saying hello, and feels awfully dumb.

“Sure,” Nishinoya responds.  He doesn't seem to be listening.  Crouching down, face close to the sidewalk, he looks underneath the vending machines.

He looks small, and tired. The rain has plastered his crested hair down over his eyes. Yamaguchi wants to lecture him about the dangers of fall chills, and is glad for his own umbrella.

“I guess I got you these,” Yamaguchi says, and holds the ice pops up.

“You’re not going to buy me with ice pops,” Nishinoya argues, eyeing the ice pops covetously.

Yamaguchi tries to hand the ice pops to Nishinoya. “Well, I’m not going to eat them.”

Nishinoya doesn’t seem to hear him. He leaps to his feet and spins in a frustrated circle. “Where the hell is this cat? I’m worried it got hit by a car or something. Charlie always comes when I call him.”

Tanaka was right about apologizing in a certain order.  This is hard to watch.

“Right, um…” Yamaguchi places the ice pops gently down on top of a newspaper box, within Nishinoya’s reach. “I’ll be right back.”

He beats a hasty retreat back into the store.  This is silly.  He wants to go home.  Maybe he will.  It doesn't really matter if Nishinoya doesn't talk to him.  They've had, what, two meaningful conversations?  It's not like they're friends.  He doesn't owe him is loyalty, exactly.

By the register, he listens to Ukai’s television quietly play late night commercials, and wonders what to do.   _  
_

_'Meow Mix comes in two varieties: original and seafood middles, a medley of mackerel, tuna, and crunchy centers bursting with seafood flavor,'_ the radio crackles.  Ukai, behind the counter, reads his newspaper instead of looking at it. _'_ _So good cats ask for it by name!’_

He could go home, having failed at something as simple as making an apology, or he could help Nishinoya find the stupid cat and see what it does for him.

"Do you sell cat food, Coach?" he asks.

Ukai responds without looking out from behind his newspaper, "Aisle three.  On the left."

"How much does it cost?"

Ukai folds his newspaper down, "Is it for that cat that lives outside?"

"Yeah," Yamaguchi affirms.  "Charlie."

"That stupid cat," Ukai mutters.  He hides behind his newspaper again, "Just take it.  If you don't Nishinoya will be out there all night."

"Do you know what sort of food it likes?" Yamaguchi wants to know.  He doesn't know why he asks, but he does.  Sometimes when he's nervous he asks too many questions.

"I don't know what that mangy animal likes," Ukai growls.

"Sorry," Yamaguchi cringes.  He never can tell, really, if Ukai likes him and the rest of the team or if he just puts up with them.  

He slinks quietly away so as not to further incur Ukai's wrath.

Ukai calls after him, "Try the pink can."

He does.  "Thanks, Coach."

"Whatever, kid.  Get the hell out of here," Ukai tells him.  Then he mutters something Yamaguchi thinks might be, "Also you're welcome."

Outside, Yamaguchi finds that the ice pops are gone from the top of the newspaper box. One is in Nishinoya’s mouth. The stick from the other is poking out of Nishinoya’s back pocket. He can see this clearly because Nishinoya’s ass is in the air. He’s looking underneath the vending machines for the cat again.

Without saying anything, Yamaguchi sets down his second offering on the sidewalk next to Nishinoya’s tiny hand.

Nishinoya doesn’t say anything either. He glances at the cat food. He glances up at Yamaguchi, and back down at the catfood again. Then he sits back on his heels and he cracks the can.

They wait.

"Do you think something happened to him?" Yamaguchi asks.

"Sh!" Nishinoya hisses.  

He cocks his head to the side and listens.  Yamaguchi shifts his anxiety from foot to foot.

"Charlie, I've got food," Nishinoya says to no one in particular.

Like magic Charlie materializes, mewing, tail quivering, from the darkness of the abandoned lot adjacent to the store. He’s old boy. Winter took the tips of his ears. But, he dances like a kitten for Nishinoya.

“Thank you, Yamaguchi,” Nishinoya says around his ice pop, and sounds relieved.  He smiles.

“You’re welcome,” Yamaguchi replies. He really means it.

The rain slows to a fine mist that floats gently down in the light of the storefront. Together, protected from the rain underneath the shop’s awning they Nishinoya and Charlie inhale their meals greedily, as though they don't know where they will find their next.

Nishinoya pets Charlie and speaks softly to him as he finishes: “Kitty, kitty, kitty. Baby kitty loves him some tuna-fish. Yeah, so yummy. You know where it’s at with the tuna an’ the pettin’. Get your little kitty motor runnin’. That’s right. Happy kitty purrs.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Yamaguchi offers.

“It's fine,” he says. He scratches Charlie behind his ears.

The doors of the store open and close.  Ukai's radio crackles oldies.

"Did you know that I really I like you?" Nishinoya suddenly says.  He doesn't look at him when he says it.  He keeps petting the cat.

Yamaguchi doesn't understand.  Then again, he doesn't understand why anyone would like him.  It seems sort of funny.  He laughs.  "Why?"

His question seems to offend Nishinoya.  He leaps to his feet.  Yamaguchi startles.

"Don't ask why!" he says.  He's suddenly alive. "I like you.  That's why I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself.  Isn't that great?"

"Uh... I guess so," Yamaguchi responds.  He isn't sure what's happening. 

"Great!" Nishinoya makes a a grand sweeping gesture, as though he is surveying his imaginary kingdom, and puffs up like a little peacock. “Do you have a pencil? You’re going to need to write this down.”

Yamaguchi plays along. He pulls his calculus notebook from his bookbag.

“First,” Nishinoya instructs, “I want soda flavored jelly beans. But, you need to pick the root beer flavored ones out because root beer is a lie and it tastes like misery! Got it?”

Yamaguchi pretends to make notes.  Really making notes might actually be since he's got no clue what's going on.  “Got it.”

“Good!” Nishinoya exclaims, head held high as he grabs his bookbag and marches away down the street. “Next…”

Yamaguchi rushes to grab his book bag and follows. He has no idea where they’re going. He doesn’t bother to ask.

“You have to come to the park in town and push me on the swings,” Nishinoya dictates as soon as Yamaguchi catches up, “without laughing about the fact that I, a grown ass man, like to be pushed on the swings, every Saturday at exactly two o’clock until the first time it snows this winter.”

 _‘What the hell?’_ Yamaguchi thinks. Instead of writing this down Yamaguchi writes, _‘Noya-senpai is a pint sized extortionist!’_ and underlines it twice.

Nishinoya comes to a stop for some reason, at a small apartment building two doors down from Hillside Mart. “And finally, you have to help Ryu and me with our super secret project.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t like the sound of this. “What sort of project?”

“I can’t tell you, otherwise it wouldn’t be super secret. But I can tell you that it’s going to make us famous.” Nishinoya does however tell him, as though this is supposed to make him feel better, “Not even Ennoshita knows about it. You’re getting in on the ground floor.”

Yamaguchi lowers his notebook. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not.” Nishinoya sweeps his worries aside with a wave. “Repeat it back to me, would ya?”

Yamaguchi silently reads _Noya-senpai is a pint sized extortionist!_ to himself three times while he recites from memory: “Soda flavored jelly beans, without root beer ones. Uh… push you on the swings every Saturday at two o’clock until the first time it snows without laughing. Super secret project which I have been lead to believe is not dangerous, details to follow.”

“Yup. That’s all of it,” Nishinoya approves. He kisses three fingers on his right hand then reaches up and gently presses them to Yamaguchi’s cheek, as though he is sticking the kiss to Yamaguchi’s face. He explains with a hundred-watt smile, “Payment for walking me home!”

Yamaguchi touches his cheek then looks at his fingers, as though he expects to see something there in the dim light of the street lamps.

“Thank you,” he says because he doesn’t know how else to respond.

Absurdly, he is overcome with an amorphous guilt; as though whatever he has done wrong has not yet happened and is lurking in the ether waiting to form.

“Excellent,” Nishinoya enthuses. “Goodnight.”

Then he trots away up the stairs to the apartment like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Goodnight,” Yamaguchi mumbles after him, too quietly to be heard.

He stands alone by the mailbox in the dark, disoriented like he has just survived a hurricane. For the second time in as many weeks he wonders what he just agreed to and, for God’s sake, why.

Too tired from the day to process, he heads home. He tries not to think too hard. But, he has the sinking feeling that he is a dead man walking.


	9. Sex-Ed Senpai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it.

At morning practice Sugawara abuses his vice-captain status to blare awful early 90’s techno and late 80’s synthpop, claiming that he believes it helps the team stay awake. Yamaguchi thinks the real reason for this is that Sugawara is a sadist who kinks on absurdism. Everyone hates it, except the third years, who seem to think it’s hilarious. Yamaguchi, for his part, knows he’s going to hear the pulsating beat of _‘What is love?’_ in his nightmares and it’s going to be all Sugawara’s fault!

This aside, he begins to feel like Nishinoya trails him all around the gym like a hungry cat. 

But, that’s not entirely true. Nishinoya, Yamaguchi notices, takes turns trailing people. He lectures Hinata for a while. Then he demands several piggyback rides from Azumane. Then he assails Shizumu with unwanted attention. Then he joins Tanaka in giving poor Shizumu more unwanted attention from across the room.

They happen to stand next to him while they do this, dancing while they stare at her. Tanaka’s an alright dancer. His gestures are a little stilted. Nishinoya, however, can _dance_. The way he can isolate languid movements is spellbinding. They’re like a pair of obscene peacocks.

 _‘What is love? What is love?’_ the voice over the stereo asks. _‘Baby don’t hurt me.’_

While Nishinoya and Tanaka ogle Shizumu, Yamaguchi ogles Yaichi. The way she fumbles folding their towels is kind of cute. He’s not brave enough this morning to offer help with her chores. Instead, he acts like a total creep.

“Girls are pretty,” Yamaguchi says, just to confirm he isn’t the only one staring at the managers. 

The girls are saints for putting up with them. Bless their hearts.

Tanaka shakes his ass and agrees, “Girls _are_ pretty.”

In an effort not to stare at Tanaka’s swaying ass, Yamagchi fixes his gaze straight ahead and needlessly agrees, “Yes they are.”

Apropos of nothing Nishinoya asks suddenly, “Hey, do you have a type, you think? Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

Nishinoya circles around him. The motion of his hips is liquid. He’s got rhythm. This seems to be some sort of invitation. Yamaguchi edges uncomfortably away. He doesn’t like to dance, and from across the room Tsukishima’s gaze is questioning.

Staring at Shizumu like he was recently lobotomized, Tanaka answers, “Girls, dude. Girls are my type. All girls.”

“Ones that don’t have time for you,” Nishinoya quips, “which would, actually, be all of them.”

Tanaka puts his entire hand over Nishinoya’s face and murmurs, “Hush. Hush now, little one. I’m watching the pretty girls ignore me.”

“I like all sorts of girls. But with boys, I have a type,” Nishinoya shares from underneath Tanaka’s fingers, even though nobody asked him. He knocks Tanaka’s hand away from his face. “I like shy, tall boys with shaggy hair and dark eyes.”

Tanaka rejoins, “Shy, tall boys with shaggy hair and dark eyes who, like all the girls in the world, aren’t really interested in you either.”

This seems to hit a sore spot. Nishinoya’s pout sours. He mutters, “Fuck off.”

Because he doesn’t like silence Yamaguchi admits, “I like blondes, and I like people who are either really tiny or really tall. I like girls who are flustered easily, and then also I like boys… I like boys... with… I like boys who sulk.”

It’s the first time he has, in so many words, admitted aloud that he is interested in the same sex. It isn’t so bad. At least Nishinoya stops sulking.

In unison the three of them all turn to watch Tsukishima, who is bent over adjusting his knee pads. Maybe, Yamaguchi thinks, Tsukishima needs new kneepads. He’s bent over quite often adjusting them, not that Yamaguchi’s complaining. He wants to sing Tsukishima’s praises. 

_‘Look at his round bum, how beautifully it contrasts his long, thin form! Behold the perfect composition of his frowny face, framed by black glasses! Look at his adorable belly! Do you see how he has a little belly like a drum? Drum belly! I want to kiss it. He is a work of art! Living proof of the grace and glory of a benevolent creator! Looking at him gives me faith that we were all were made for a higher purpose,’_ he wants to say. 

In the interest of maintaining the illusion that he is a sane human being, he does not share any of this.

“Wait for it,” Tanaka breathes. 

_‘What is love? What is love?’_ the voice over the stereo goddamn needs to know. Yamaguchi couldn’t answer if he tried. _‘What is love?’_

Tsukishima stands. He glances around in confusion, as though he can feel their eyes on him. It must make him nervous because he shifts from foot to foot and scowls down at his laced fingers. Fidgeting, he appears to listen for whoever might be talking smack about him.

“Wait for it,” Tanaka reminds them. 

“Bam!” Nishinoya whispers when Tsukishima’s gaze snaps in their direction.

Tsukishima gives them a cross, _‘What do you think you’re looking at?’_ pout. The way his brow crinkles is perfectly contemptuous. The angle at which he tilts his head is gloriously condescending. 

He, Nishinoya, and Tanaka all pretend to have been looking at something else. After a moment, Tsukishima loses interest in them.

 _‘Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me,’_ the voice over the stereo insists. Yamaguchi wonders if there’s a reason Sugawara insists on playing the same song over and over, or if he just thinks it’s funny. _‘Baby don’t hurt me no more.’_

“Tsukishima _does_ have a nice pout. He does it all the time, too,” Nishinoya is happy to confirm. He gives Yamaguchi a congratulatory slap across his back. It smarts. “He’s got terrible attitude problems. Good job, Yamaguchi. Way to be. You’ve got exactly what you want.”

“He’s got a nice ass, too,” Tanaka says. He stops dancing and stands still, shamelessly sizing Tsukishima up with a hand cupping his chin as though he’s trying to complete a difficult math problem.

Tsukishima glares at him. Tanaka grins. Tsukishima walks away without comment. They silently admire his retreat.

“Tanaka?” Nishinoya asks.

“Yeah?” Tanaka responds. He seems distracted.

“You like dudes,” Nishinoya informs him. 

Tanaka is incensed. He pulls an awfully ugly Tanaka face and growls, like he’s trying to sound intimidating or something, “You’ve got some nerve. I can look!”

Nishinoya is unphased. He laughs as he swaggers his hasty retreat. “Admit it! Admit it!”

Tanaka pushes up his sleeves and stalks after him. 

It isn’t until they’re gone that Yamaguchi notices, across the room, that Ennoshita is watching him. It makes him awfully uneasy. He feels like he’s done something he shouldn’t have.

He is saved by the fact that morning practice ends with Ukai shouting, “Turn this crap off, Sugawara! I can’t take it anymore! Must we sweat while listening to the Eurythmics? Must we?”

Sugawara looks like an imp when he sniggers.

As predicted, Yamaguchi has techno stuck in his head all damn day. People say life is short but his days are long.

Even though he spends almost all of his time with Tsukishima, they don’t spend much of it dating. Six days a week their schedule is: practice, school, study, practice, study, sleep -- half days on Saturday. He manages to wedge extra practices in Friday through Sunday, and Tuesday, too. 

By the time school lets out he wishes it was socially acceptable to go to bed at 4:00PM. As his birthday approaches, he goes to bed earlier and earlier. He sleeps as though dead. It feels good. If he can’t jerk off, at least he can have dirty dreams. During the day, however, they haunt him. 

There’s one about Tsukishima in the library that he’s had several times. It has a soundtrack now: _‘What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me. What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me.’_

It’s torture, plain and simple.

After practice, he and Tsukishima do their homework upstairs in Tsukishima’s bedroom. He watches Tsukishima’s eyes flick across the pages of his book, and thinks about his dreams. He is afraid that he will be caught staring across the low table when he should be studying. But that doesn’t stop him.

“Are you having trouble focusing?” Tsukishima asks after a while. He sounds bored. He doesn’t so much as up from his book.

“No,” Yamaguchi lies. “I’m fine.”

Tsukishima doesn’t look like he believes him. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Yamaguchi looks back down at his page. He doodles spirals. “Just fine. I’m just fine, Tsukki. Thank you.”

He’s not fine. He’s in anguish.

In the dream he keeps having, he sits under a desk between Tsukishima’s slim legs. They’re cocked out at relaxed angles and make him appear, to Yamaguchi’s eyes, masculine and beautiful. Attention focused mostly on his book, he plays with Yamaguchi’s hair. Every unhurried gesture feels nice.

There is a sense he only gets in dreams, that he can see not only the form of a person but also right through them to their intentions and desires. That isn’t even the good part. 

Much bolder in fantasy than in life, he leans forward mouths Tsukishima through his tight, black jeans in fervent osculation. Between his lips the fabric is starched stiff.

 _‘We’re in public, you know,’_ Tsukishima says.

It always strikes him, when he thinks about this while he’s awake, how very little his dream self cares who sees.

 _‘You’re stupid when you’re horny. We’re going to get caught,’_ Tsukishima then observes. The statement is neutral, without a hint of malice. _‘Here.’_

He offers his fingers and Yamaguchi lets him pet along the crescent of his teeth, under his tongue, over the ridges on the roof of his mouth.

Back in reality, Yamaguchi taps his pencil on the low table. Mindlessly, he presses his thumb against his lips, and pierces them. It feels good to run his fingers along them when they’re slicked with spit.

“Gross,” Tsukishima comments. He lowers his book. He’s quietly appalled. “Yamaguchi, are you sucking your thumb?”

Yamaguchi doesn’t even bother to deny it. “Sorry. Just thinking really hard. About these math problems… which are difficult.”

They’re not actually all that difficult, and yet only one problem is complete. He bites his thumb.

Blue balls is an awful affliction. It feels exactly like having to sneeze: the pressure of fluid backed up, teetering on the edge, waiting for a reflex to release it. This is disgusting, considering the sensation is low in his pelvis. 

He shifts uncomfortably. He can’t stop thinking about his goddamn dirty dreams. He wishes he could. He wishes he had some sort of control over himself!

The good part of the dream is that he doesn’t realize there are people watching until Tsukishima apologizes to them, _‘Sorry, he can’t help himself.’_

When he glances up, though he can only see their blurry outlines, lit from behind, he can tell their onlookers are scandalized and fascinated by his behavior.

Tsukishima sighs. His voice is light and playful, _Yes, I know he’s cute. No, you can’t pet him. He only lets me do that.’_

Tsukishima runs his thumb over Yamaguchi’s spit-slicked lips, pierces them and holds him in place by his jaw so that the onlookers can get a better look at his face. 

Tsukishima asks the onlookers as though issuing a dare, _‘Would you like to see what else he does for me?’_

The dream ends there, every time. It’s so frustrating!

Yamaguchi doodles more spirals across his homework. His paper is a mess. If he doesn’t get off soon, these dreams are going to kill him. He is marching directly into the jaws of death. The jaws of death are best avoided, generally. He, however, has decided to march straight for them.

Maybe tonight it won’t end there. Maybe it’ll go further. Maybe he’ll actually have a wet dream. Maybe he’ll just resign himself to soiling his sheets. It might make him feel better. He doesn’t care anymore. 

Or, Yamaguchi fantasizes, instead of resigning himself to the private, soul-crushing humiliation of nocturnal emissions, he’ll grow a pair. First he’ll take Tsukishima’s glasses off his face. Then he’ll say, _‘I’m going to kiss you now, you snarky bastard.’_

“Tsukki?” he says abruptly.

“Huh?” Tsukishima responds. His glasses slide down the bridge his nose. 

“Did I get this one right?” Yamaguchi asks, pointing to the only problem on his page that’s actually complete.

He knows he got it right. He just wants attention. Desperately, he wants attention. He slides his notebook across the table. Tsukishima takes it. He sets his book aside. This isn’t such an uncommon occurrence, that he asks Tsukishima for help with his homework. Tsukishima has no reason to be suspicious.

While Tsukishima studies the problem, he makes his move. He edges around the table. Impatiently fiddling with the pages of Tsukishima’s book, he pretends to wait for a reply. He can do this.

“Yeah. It’s right,” Tsukishima tells him, and it’s suddenly strange because their faces are too close. 

“Okay,” Yamaguchi says. Without segue, very gingerly, he reaches up and pulls Tsukishima’s glasses off his face. Tsukishima doesn’t fight him. “So... um...”

Tsukishima looks naked without his specs. For some reason, he also looks sort of startled. He blinks owlishly down at him.

“Well… Uh...” Yamaguchi stamers. He leans closer. Clumsily he deposits Tsukishima’s glasses on the table. “I-- Um… I was just thinking--”

“Yeah?” Tsukishima asks. His dispassionate gaze is intimidating.

Yamaguchi swallows thickly, “I uh… I want to…”

He can’t say it! As a concealment measure for his abject gooberishness, he jerks forward and kisses him instead. It’s so lame -- just one little self-conscious peck. Their lips are hard and don’t fit together correctly. Yamaguchi pulls back immediately. 

It’s the worst. He’s so embarrassed!

Tsukishima seems to find this amusing. He closes his eyes, and laughs at him, nervously almost, “Heh, heh.”

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi groans. “You’re so mean.”

He tries again. It works better this time, probably because Tsukishima turns toward him and because he tilts his head at a sharper angle. Their lips slot together just right. 

Mostly, Tsukishima is good at this. But, sometimes he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. For example, he just sort of hovers them awkwardly in the air for a confused moment before settling them on Yamaguchi’s chest.

Yamaguchi likes it. When Tsukishima touches him like that it makes him feel strong, even though his shoulders are slight. He cups Tsukishima’s face in his hand, pets over his cheek with his thumb, and parts his lips. 

Tsukishima’s babyface is so cute! He’s adorable! No other boy in the world is at once so fierce and so sweet. Across the sky with diamonds he will write, _‘I love chubby cheeks!’_

It’s difficult for Yamaguchi, when he’s excited, to keep his tongue soft while he probes deeper. He does his best anyhow. Practice makes perfect!

Tsukishima’s mouth is perfect already. It’s warm inside when he’s kissed. Yamaguchi loves it. With one long, lathing lick over his lips he communicates this.

“Hn,” Tsukishima complains. He winces.

The room is quiet, except the sound of the soft, wet of their mouths moving together.

If only he could work up the courage to push Tsukishima onto his back, he’d climb on top of him, and take this further. Yamaguchi catches his lower lip between his teeth and pulls gently. 

“Nn,” Tsukishima complains further. His hands twitch. All over, he stiffens.

It’s cute, too, that Tsukishima always kisses with his eyes tightly shut. Yamaguchi does not kiss with his eyes closed. He wants to see every single one of Tsukishima’s reactions.

Slowly but surely, he’s becoming skilled at this. It’s only natural. Kissing is just another way to tell Tsukishima he adores him, after all! The way Tsukishima’s brow knits in concentration as he dips deeper into his mouth is so very adorable.

 _‘Fuck it! I’m goin’ for broke!’_ Yamaguchi thinks, half crazed through the fog of his arousal. _‘Horizontal make-out mode engage!’_

Fingers curled around Tsukishima’s arm, he attempts to rock him back. Tsukishima doesn’t budge. In fact, he flattens both hands on his chest and pushes him gently, but firmly, away. 

Yamaguchi sits back on his heels. He doesn’t understand where he went wrong. 

Also, he might be drooling a little. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He was definitely drooling a little. It doesn’t actually matter to him all that much.

“Satisfied?” Tsukishima wants to know. He doesn’t meet his eyes while he replaces his glasses.

 _‘No, I wanna hit that,’_ the obscene part of his mind whispers. _‘God, I wanna hit it. Heavy petting, at least. Throw me a bone, Tsukki. You’re killing me.’_

Obviously, he can’t say such a thing. He clears his throat. Attempting discretion in shifting his stupid, painful woody so it’s at least a little less conspicuous is a difficult task.

“Yeah,” he lies again. “Mmhm. That was great, Tsukki. I--”

“Yamaguchi?” Tsukishima interrupts. He picks up his book again, opens it.

“Yeah?” Yamaguchi asks and is proud of how calm he sounds considering he’s thinking, _‘Please say you’re not satisfied. Say you want to kiss again. Say you want to put on a maid costume and kitty ears and sit on my dick this instant. Or the other way around! Whatever! Say whatever you want, Tsukki! Anything, Tsukki! I’m yours, Tsukki!’_

Over the edge of his book, his gaze is unwavering. “Does showing me off to our friends get you off?”

This is going to drive him insane. It’s really going to drive him insane! Sooner or later, he’s going to break and start saying every nasty thought that pops into his head. 

The dispassionate placidity of Tsukishima’s demeanor is unnerving. 

Yamaguchi answers with the serenity of a man driven past the point of caring, “Yes.”

“I see,” Tsukishima acknowledges. That seems to satisfy his curiosity. Then, because everything about Tsukishima is unfair, he goes back to reading. 

Yamaguchi isn’t done talking. So long as they’re having an honest conversation, he might as well let Tsukishima know, “I want to take you to the movies tomorrow, Tsukki.”

“I’m busy,” Tsukishima tells him from behind his book.

 _‘Busy with what?’_ Yamaguchi wonders. He knows Tsukishima’s schedule inside and out. Tsukishima does not, in fact, have anything to do the next day. On Sundays, he’s usually done with his homework. So he does nothing but read and argue with his brother over text or, sometimes when Yamaguchi’s lucky, he plays video games. 

Yamaguchi tries not to look too disappointed. He’s not about to give up. “What about Monday, come over?”

“I’m going to be busy all week,” Tsukishima informs him, with an air of finality.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says lamely. He doodles a sad spiral at the top of his page. “Alright. That’s fine then, I guess.”

This shouldn’t worry him. Really, it shouldn’t. 

The next day, however, after morning practice with Shimada, he has almost nothing to do except worry.

In the afternoon he waits in the park for Nishinoya, just like he promised he would. The air is cold and smells like burning leaves. He sits on the swings bundled in his scarf, and watches birds swim through the air overhead. 

Maybe, he muses, he’s anxious because his birthday is approaching. Birthdays always make him feel funny. They make him question where he came from. When he was smaller, he really thought he was the only kid in the whole world without a dad.

It didn’t help, he supposes, that there is no evidence of his father in his grandparents’ house. His mother never talked about him. Her siblings don’t either. Nobody ever talks about him. He’s never even seen a picture of his father’s face. 

All traces of him have been effectively erased from their family. He knows because, in secret, he’s looked. All over the house, he’s looked: in junk drawers, in boxes in the attic, between the pages of every book he could find.

It’s like his father never existed.

This is what makes him think his father isn’t a good person. Obviously, people don’t excise family members if they like them. What’s wrong with his father? What breed of dirtbag loser is he, exactly? A gambler? A drunk? Is he violent? What could he possibly have done that was so bad no one will tell him what it was he did? 

Is rottenness hereditary?

He fears he looks like his father. Maybe his father has slight shoulders. Maybe his father has cowlicks. Maybe his father has freckles. What if they remind his family of his dad? 

Sometimes, he fears that if he doesn’t smile people will leave him. If he isn’t at all times trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, brave, and reverent, he’ll be left behind. It makes him tired.

Except, of course, when he’s with Tsukishima. He can act out when he’s with Tsukishima. But, that’s different. Tsukishima gives him permission to be himself -- bad parts included. Tsukishima would never leave him for that. Right?

Of course not!

He drags the toes of his All-Stars through the dirt in the rut beneath the swing. They make two parallel divots. 

Tsukishima is the king of mixed signals. He doesn’t mean to run hot and cold. He just has strange relationships with things he cares about. He overthinks everything. Yamaguchi knows this. That’s just how people who are too smart for their own good behave.

Even so, Yamaguchi can’t help but wonder if he’s missing something. 

“What’s the matter, buddy?”

Yamaguchi flinches spectacularly to reality. Nishinoya’s face is just a little too close for comfort. He smells like citrus hair gel.

 _‘Don’t sneak up on me like that!’_ Yamaguchi thinks.

“Nothing!” Reflexively, he lies. Something about the confused face Nishinoya pulls tells him he doesn’t believe him. “I mean, do you ever worry, Noya-senpai?”

It’s a stupid question. Everyone worries. 

Hands stuffed in his pockets, he crashes into the swing seat beside him with all the elegance of a moose falling on its ass. “Worry about what?”

His problems suddenly seem silly. Their vapidity embarrasses him. He eyes Nishinoya, and wonders why his family always lets him out of the house without a jacket. Perhaps imperviousness to the cold is genetic. Yamaguchi is cold just looking at Nishinoya sitting there in nothing but his t-shirt and slacks.

He leaves his answer as vague as possible, “You know, stuff.”

“I see. I see. Stuff,” Nishinoya acknowledges. His sobriety is false. There’s humor in his voice. The metal hinges squeak a complaint as he leans back, and begins to swing. “Like the sort of stuff where, when people ask what worries you, and you smile and say, ‘Nothing! Nothing at all!’?”

Yamaguchi gets the uneasy feeling that Nishinoya is talking about himself. Dispensing advice is a way of recycling past injuries for more than they’re worth. Nishinoya is the undisputed king of unsolicited advice. 

Overhead the birds dip and wheel. Yamaguchi watches them.

“I guess. It isn’t that bad.”

This is a lie.

“It’s okay if it is, you know,” Nishinoya, in his infinite wisdom, informs him. He brightens. Playfully, Nishinoya shoves him. They both sway in their swings. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Say, ‘Yes, Noya-senpai! I won’t be hard on myself!’”

“I won’t be hard on myself,” Yamaguchi repeats. 

Nishinoya really milks his senpai status for all its worth. He’s a ham. At least he’s nice about it.

“Good, good. Very good. I’m proud of you.” Nishinoya is very silly, but the praise feels good anyhow. He claps Yamaguchi on the back so hard it knocks the wind out of him -- twice. “Now, make me another promise.”

“Yeah?” Yamaguchi gasps.

“If you ever succeed in not being hard on yourself, tell me how,” Nishinoya says, and laughs. 

Yamaguchi laughs, too. Nishinoya is strange. 

They go quiet. The hinges of the swing set creak. 

Just before the silence gets weird, Nishinoya says, “Are you going to push me or not?”

“Okay,” Yamaguchi agrees.

He stands quickly, but he’s hesitant. A part of him isn’t sure why he’s doing this. Regarding the exposed expanse of Nishinoya’s neck between his t-shirt and his hairline, Yamaguchi realizes it's very odd to reach out and touch another person. He pauses.

“What are you waiting for?” Nishinoya wants to know. He swings his feet impatiently.

“Aren’t you cold without a jacket?” Yamaguchi asks. He reaches out and pushes him.

“No,” Nishinoya, swinging gently, tells him. “I’m not.”

His back is cold to the touch. His hair looks wet.

Yamaguchi wants to touch it to make sure it isn’t. Maybe he could under the pretense of asking him how long it takes him to style it so it sticks straight up like a broom. Does he use citrus scented product because it’s the only one available or because that’s his preference, Yamaguchi wonders.

He wonders, also, if Nishinoya is enjoying this. 

“Ever since we started dating, Tsukki won’t stop teasing me,” Yamaguchi admits after a while, just to break the silence. He always has run his mouth in silence. It always has gotten him in trouble. “I like it but it’s making me crazy.”

Nishinoya seems to take a great interest in this. He questions Yamaguchi rapidly. It throws Yamaguchi off guard:

“Have you asked him to stop?”

“I don’t want him to stop.”

“Okay. Then, have you asked him why he’s teasing you?”

“Well, no.”

“Have you tried teasing back?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Well then,” Nishinoya concludes. “You should show him who’s boss.”

That seems silly. He can lay down the law with Tsukishima, no problem. However, telling Tsukishima he needs to get his ass in gear when it comes to his athletic pursuits is a much different story than all but demanding sexual favors from him. Yamaguchi looks down at the dirty toes of his shoes. “I can’t do that.”

“You can,” Nishinoya corrects. He’s testy about it. As Yamaguchi pushes him in the swing he gesticulates wildly and rants, “First of all, even though, apparently, you’re unaware, you cast shade like nobody’s business. Secondly, all the time Tsukishima is like, _‘Watch me flagrantly give exactly zero shits. Do something about it. I dare you.’_ You know what that means, don’t you?”

Honestly, Yamaguchi is not following, “Not really?”

“It means he wants you to do something about it, Yamaguchi!” Nishinoya sounds like he wants to shake him. “He’ll fall like a house of cards. Trust me on this one.”

The love doctor is in the house, apparently. Yamaguchi regrets opening his big mouth. “I don’t know if I want him to fall like a house of cards.”

“Nah. You’ll see. I bet you’ll like it. I’ll even demonstrate for you, ya’ know, how to tease him,” Nishinoya offers, as though he would be doing Yamaguchi a gigantic favor by getting in Tsukishima’s face. “I bet you three popsicles you’ll like it.”

Yamaguchi wants no part of it. Besides, he doesn’t particularly like popsicles. They hurt his teeth. “No thanks.”

“Why you gotta be like that?” Nishinoya demands. “Look at you! You’re casting shade on my brilliant plan, and you don’t even know it. You’ve got quite an attitude. This is for your own good. I’m helping you.”

 _‘Why are you so hell bent on this idea that just occurred to you thirty seconds ago, you strange little person? Since when is it a “plan”? What am I missing?’_ Yamaguchi wonders. Tentatively he asks, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to tease Tsukki?”

As though to say _obviously_ Nishinoya asks in return, “Can the Pope fit his dick through a donut hole?”

Yamaguchi has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Nishinoya enthuses. “I don’t know! But, I’m gonna do it anyway. Like I said, it would be fun to find out.”

Yamaguchi thinks he and Nishinoya might have fundamentally different ideas of fun. “You have to be nice to him.”

He doesn’t know what exactly he’s agreeing to, or why he’s going along with it. It could be the fact that Nishinoya seems to be naturally gifted at making other people do what he wants and Yamaguchi has always been weak for that. 

In that way Nishinoya is similar to Tsukishima. Yamaguchi thinks perhaps this ability, in both of them, boils down to confidence or at least the projection of it. Except, while Tsukishima’s is rooted deliberate calculation, Nishinoya’s is instinct and animal grace.

This would be dangerous, if Yamaguchi wasn’t already in love.

“Sure, sure. I’m always nice.” Nishinoya brushes Yamaguchi’s concerns away with a sweep of his hand. Then he demands, “Hey, push me harder. I’m not a teacup. You’re being too gentle.” 

Yamaguchi does as he is told. He takes a running start -- three steps -- and pushes hard. Nishinoya’s narrow back is solid and his shoulder blades are sharp against Yamaguchi’s forceful shove.

“I’m’ma jump!” Nishinoya warns.

He soars so high he seems to pause in midair at the apex of his swing. 

“Don’t!” Yamaguchi shouts.

Nishinoya does. He lets go of the swing seat.

Yamaguchi winces at the very real and sudden thought of Nishinoya’s ankle cracking as he hits the ground.

“I’m a bird!” Nishinoya, flying through the air, calls.

Nishinoya hits the ground. His legs crumple under him. He rolls. 

Then, smoothly, he bounces to his feet as though to say, _‘Ta-da! Look at me! I’m just fine.’_

“That’s dangerous,” Yamaguchi wants Nishinoya to know. It makes him sort of sore that Nishinoya would give him such a scare.

“You worry too much,” Nishinoya teases. His smile is wide, his shoulders square. “This week, at practice, I’ll show you. It’s not so hard to get the upper hand on Tsukishima. Then you’ll go ahead and do it yourself, and I’ll win three popsicles. Trust me. You’ll see.”

Nishinoya is awfully confident for a kid who's got wood chips in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [sycophantism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sycophantism/pseuds/Sycophantism) for beta reading.
> 
> Sorry this update took so long, and again for the quality of the previous chapter. I was working on this [filth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4712636/chapters/10763660) about Tsukishima jerking off over cake in front of a webcam.
> 
> Sorry in general really.
> 
>  
> 
> [Yell at me about HQ! on tumblr if you forgive me.](http://winplaceshow.tumblr.com/)


	10. The Kitchen on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plz be nice to me i am so very tired, and also maybe low key dying of a cold given to me when a CHILD COUGHED INTO MY MOUTH i swear i felt it in the back of my throat ugh plz take me god i'm ready

He and Tsukishima have cultural appreciation first thing. It’s too bad, really, because art class would probably be fun if it wasn’t conducted at the asscrack of dawn.

The air in the cultural appreciation classroom tastes like flowers and paint. The teachers have, apparently, agreed that it is safer for all involved to allow Nishinoya to excuse himself to the art classroom to draw when he has bad days than it is to allow him to wander the school grounds unsupervised. 

Nishinoya has taken up residence there. 

This is why it doesn’t surprise Yamaguchi that when they arrive Nishinoya is sitting sequestered in the corner he has claimed as his own, painting. His hands are already a mess, which makes Yamaguchi think he’s been sitting there for hours already even though the school day has only just started.

Tsukishima does not look pleased to see him. Yamaguchi does not know what their problem is with one another recently. But he does know that he doesn’t have the energy for it today.

 _‘Nevermind. Ignore Nishinoya. He’s probably forgotten that he promised to harass Tsukki. Don’t remind him. Maybe he’ll keep to himself. Focus on your work,’_ Yamaguchi thinks and, after gathering his supplies, draws a chair up to the table across from Tsukishima. 

Tsukishima draws pink confectionaries, as usual. Yamaguchi attempts a charcoal drawing of a shiba inu, like he does every week. He knows it’s going to come out crappy, like it does every week. But, he’s going to try until he gets it right. 

Hardly a line into this failure of an endeavor, without a word, Nishinoya plops down next to him. His materials scatter messily across the table. 

“I need to borrow your charcoal,” Nishinoya tells him simply, businesslike. It seems he’s as serious about art as he is about volleyball. He takes the charcoal without waiting for Yamaguchi’s reply.

Meanwhile, Tsukishima grows ever closer to the perfecting the art of telepathic communication.

To say Tsukishima is annoyed by Nishinoya’s behavior is an understatement. The way his lip curls, he doesn’t need to speak a word for Yamaguchi to hear him ask, _‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’_

Shaking his head Yamaguchi raises his upturned, charcoal stained palms to demonstrate his innocence and say, _‘I don’t know! What have I done to deserve this, Tsukki?’_

Nishinoya, lost in his work, to nudges up far too close to Yamaguchi on his right. Yamaguchi inches away.

Tsukishima sulks. Yamaguchi reads in Tsukishima’s perfect pout: _‘I bet you were nice to him! Now he’s following you like a stray animal! Serves you right!’_

Nishinoya edges his chair so close that their thighs press together under the table. His legs are hard and warm. Their touch makes Yamaguchi feel funny in a way he doesn’t entirely know how to process.

Yamaguchi mouths, _‘Help me, Tsukki!’_

Tsukishima eyes them. For a wavering moment Yamaguchi tastes relief at what he is sure will be a swift and righteous intervention.

Tsukishima instead sniffs primly. Then he turns back to inking the heart sprinkles on his page of fluffy pink and white strawberry cupcakes as though to say, _‘I said, serves you right.’_

Yamaguchi stares down at his blank page. He can hear Nishinoya breathing. 

If he had to guess he’d say this is probably how Tsukishima felt when he first started following him around. Getting a taste of his own medicine is awful. He’s ashamed of himself for ever having put another human being through this.

"It's not often you get the opportunity to sit down and watch the work of a real master," Nishinoya says of his own painting.

Yamaguchi peers down at it. The subject is a flat and frankly uninspired abstract riff on a fire breathing dragon. The dragon is wearing glasses. Boy, is it ugly.

Yamaguchi is unsure how to respond. 

Nishinoya’s smile is sly, and playful. Something about it makes Yamaguchi woozy. Maybe that something is the fact that Nishinoya is out of his damn mind.

Smiling queasily Yamaguchi replies, "Yeah, wow. I really like those clouds in the background."

"Those are birds,” Nishinoya corrects. “Work with me here, Yamaguchi."

"My bad, Noya-senpai," Yamaguchi apologizes.

On the other side of the table Tsukishima clicks his tongue.

 _‘Tsukki, help,’_ Yamaguchi pleads mentally. 

Tsukishima refuses to look at him.

Nishinoya attempts to comfort him in Tsukishima’s place. "Don’t be too hard on yourself, Yamaguchi. You're still learning-- a budding artist. I like that weasel you’re drawing!”

Yamaguchi wants to cry. “It’s a dog!” 

On the other side of the table, Tsukishima sniggers at him. Traitor! 

Nishinoya comes to his defense. “Also, that cupcake is super gay, Tsukishima.”

This time, Yamaguchi laughs.

Abruptly Tsukishima’s pencil stops moving. 

This word, Yamaguchi remembers, is forbidden. Tsukishima is the only one allowed to make people uncomfortable with gay jokes.

“Sorry, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi breathes, and sinks down in his chair.

Yamaguchi can hear Tsukishima’s mental rant just looking at him: _‘Do you have a problem with my fluffy heart cupcakes, you little turd? You vertically challenged little dingleberry! You short little shit! Because if you have a problem then we might have a problem. I don’t want that. I don’t want any problems. I just want to draw my fluffy cupcakes and for everybody to leave me alone. If someone takes issue with my fluffy cupcakes I will be forced to draw them a detailed diagram of where they can cram it. And I don’t want that! I just want to draw fluffy--’’_

Nishinoya ignores him. 

This is probably because Nishinoya’s got balls. 

As though his life is not in real and immediate danger he continues painting. Tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration he painstakingly dabs what Yamaguchi can only guess are supposed to be beaks on the birds. It doesn’t do anything to make them look less like clouds. 

Yamaguchi fears for Nishinoya. So he offers, “I like your cupcake, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima doesn’t seem to hear him. He cuts right to the heart of the problem with Nishinoya’s painting technique. “You suck, Nishinoya.”

“At art? You only think that because most geniuses aren’t recognized in their lifetimes,” Nishinoya replies. His hands and the table are just as much of a disaster as his canvas. 

“What,” Tsukishima wants to know, “is the matter with you?”

Nishinoya paints passionately and with no skill whatsoever. “Someday, this painting is going to be behind bulletproof glass, and you’ll have to pay to visit it.”

“Are you on drugs?” Tsukishima asks, with more frustration than Yamaguchi has heard in his voice for a long, long time.

“Not at the moment,” Nishinoya rejoins without missing a beat. He leans back and, proudly, surveys his work. “This-- This is going to be in textbooks and stuff.”

Tsukishima looks at Nishinoya like he hates him. He very well might.

Nishinoya doesn’t blink. In fact, he smiles.

“Stop that,” Tsukishima orders, except there’s no authority in his voice at all. He sounds like a little kid playing house, pretending to tell his pet dog to sit down.

“You’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you saw this painting get made, Yamaguchi.” Nishinoya puts a hand on his shoulder, and levels him a sober look. "That’s only one of the many reasons you should cherish this moment."

On the other side of the table, Tsukishima silently regards Nishinoya’s hand on Yamaguchi’s shoulder like it is a piece of garbage.

There is yellow paint on his black gakuran from Nishinoya’s unclean fingers. 

“Thanks, Noya-senpai,” he says anyway. "I guess I will."

Nishinoya doesn’t look at Yamaguchi when he responds. As he speaks he glances at Tsukishima even though neither of them are talking to him. “I know you will, buddy.”

Tsukishima’s eyes narrow.

“Uh-huh,” Yamaguchi acknowledges. 

He wants to run. 

His discomfort mounts more at Tsukishima’s anger than Nishinoya’s silliness. Nishinoya’s weird. But he's alright. Yamaguchi kind of likes him for how strange he is. Yamaguchi wishes he wouldn't provoke Tsukishima, though. 

“I taught myself to paint, ya’ know," Nishinoya says, gesturing to his finished work. “I’m self-taught.”

The painting is an abomination. He waits patiently for feedback.

Tsukishima cuts in. "‘I taught myself to cook,’ he says, gesturing to the kitchen on fire!”

“Tsukki, be nice,” Yamaguchi says without thinking.

There is paint on Nishinoya’s silly face. He's kind of cute. 

Tsukishima gasps sharply, as though he was struck. Then, he sulks down at his fluffy cupcakes. He looks at them like they are more important than Nishinoya could ever, in his lifetime, hope to be.

“This one’s for you, Tsukishima," Nishinoya says. "I’ll even sign it for ya’. A Nishinoya Yuu original. Keep it. It’ll be worth something someday. Trust me.”

With a flourish Nishinoya writes his name at the bottom of the page. 

Still, Tsukishima doesn't say anything. 

Nishinoya slides the painting across the table.

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima both cock their heads at the painting. It's absolute garbage and Tsukishima has nothing to say. This confuses Yamaguchi.

"Oh, okay. Thanks," Yamaguchi says in Tsukishima's place.

“Well, I guess it’s time for math class,” Nishinoya decides. “Or whatever’s left of it.”

Nishinoya rises from his seat. He throws his jacket over his shoulder.

Tsukishima continues to sit in petulant silence. Yamaguchi doesn't know quite what to do.

Nishinoya, having done his damage, saunters out of the room. Just when he’s beyond Tsukishima’s range of vision, Nishinoya turns. He walks a single jaunty step backwards. Smile half cocked, he winks at Yamaguchi. 

His eyes are fiery gems.

 _‘The day is bright!’_ they say. _‘The world is wide!’_

Yamaguchi lamely chokes on his own spit. Nishinoya disappears down the hallway.

 _'What the fuck was that?'_ he wonders.

Finally, Tsukishima elects to look up from the table.

“What's the matter with you?” he wants to know, as though there’s nothing the matter with _him_.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Yamaguchi lies without quite being sure why. “Allergies.”

He waits for Tsukishima to throw the painting away. Tsukishima doesn’t do that. He waits for it to dry. Then he puts it in his backpack. 

Something about this interaction makes Tsukishima sore with him for the rest of the day. 

Yamaguchi is baffled.


	11. Eaten By Wolves

Then, on the eve of November 9th, while walking home from school, Yamaguchi was eaten alive by a roving pack of shiba inus. He died cold and alone, fifteen years old, and a virgin.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is on hiatus.


End file.
